Dez se Sadon Dovah Vahlok
by Ginyou Rinsom
Summary: An age of war and strife once again litter the continent of Tamriel, as the Armies of the Dovahkiin seek to break the Dominion's hold. Destiny however has it's own plans, watch as the Dovahkiin leaves his mark upon Theadas and the Grey Wardens.
1. Dragons Calling and Warden's troubles

_**Dez se Sadon Dovah Vahlok (Fate of the Dragon Grey Wardon)  
**_

_**This idea came to me while discussing random Skyrim things, The Dovahkiin running around Ferelden causing all sorts of trouble? Fun fun! It will span (barring being lazy) all of Origins, its DLC and Awakenings. **_

_**Dragon Age Origins and all its associated characters, items and ideas belong to Bioware and EA.**_

_**The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim and all associated belong to Bethesda. **_

_**Chapter One - ****Dragons Calling and Warden's troubles**_

* * *

"Thalmor scum, perish!" howled the deep baritone voice of the armored warrior as his demonic sword clashes against an ethereal glowing blade. The armored warrior's immense strength quickly overpowered the slender robed warrior, forcing him to stagger backwards, attempting to contain his balance. Backpedalling quickly, the robed figure mutters mystic words under his breath and swipes his arm across the battlefield. Moments later, another ethereal form appears in a flash and suddenly a massive glowing troll besets upon the armored warrior.

Despite the creature's ominous and frightening stature, the warrior slams his shield across the creatures face and rakes the demonic sword across its throat, ending the conjured troll's brief existence, its corpse disappearing in a wisp of smoke. A throaty growl emanates behind the armored warriors helmet as he stares down the robed figure, both circling each other, eyes focused on each other, oblivious to the battle raging below them.

"Quite a feat for such an ignorant race such as yourself, Nord, you managed to convince the other rubbish to follow your banner. Enjoy your title for now High-King for your pathetic race will ultimately be underfoot of the glorious elven empire."

A snort echoes from beneath the helmet as the armored warrior takes a slow deliberate step closer to the robed figure. "That Elven arrogance really is trying my patience, why don't we halt this pointless dance and I will send you to your ancestors." Without another word, the two warriors continue their dance sword clashing against conjured steel, fire and ice erupting from the elf's fingertips attempting to keep the massive armored form back. His shield effortlessly blocks the combined elements as he charges forward his demonic sword arcing from below and biting into the robed man's chest, a deep gash from stomach to chest is the result as the robed figure stumbles backwards catching his balance on a tree. His pristine black robes stained with sweat, dirt and copious amounts of blood, shortly his hands glow white pressed against his gushing wound as the massive warrior quickly closes the distance sword held aloft rocketing towards the elf's head.

A small part experience and a large part of instinct force the injured elven warrior to roll away from the tree not a second too soon as the demonic sword bites deeply into the weathered wood. A growl of frustration exerts as the armored warrior utilizes his corded muscles to tear the blade from the wood's prison. Three sharp noises pierce the battlefield as gracefully crafted missiles pierce the black plate and imbed into his flesh. Whipping his head towards the source, he sucks in a breath.

Charging towards the duel, three Elven archers come to the aid of their general. However, before they can notch another arrow the thunderous voice of the armored warrior bellows out.

"_**FUS RO DAH!**_" A hurricane-like gust lifts the Elven archers off the ground, flings them effortlessly off the cliff, and down into the massive brawl below. Their screams of terror coincide with the echoing roar to sound the final symphony of their lives.

Fueled by pain and anger, the injured warrior rips the sword from the tree, his left arm hanging limply at his side, weighed down by his secured shield. Stalking forward, the glare beneath his helmet is not lost to the recovered Elf as he readies a spell in his hands.

"So that is the power of the Thu'um. Most impressive, I must admit. However, that power will not save you or your barbarous race from our glory. Surrender your war and I may allow you to die quickly, dog."

A barking laugh echoes from the warrior as he holds his sword up in defiance; "Shut your mouth, Thalmor scum. Your head will adorn a pike outside the gates of my hold along with the rest of your conceded people."

A sneer crosses the Elf's face as he thrusts his hands forward, a massive surge of electricity erupting from his palms and racing towards the injured warrior but is simply evaded, allowing the warrior close the distance between them. His demonic blade, attempting to find its place in the Elf's head, once again is intercepted by the glowing conjured blade. Another deadly dance of swords persists between the two skilled combatants, both fighting for their cause and homeland. The Elven warrior's lack of skill in the blade showing as the injured Nord quickly overcomes him in a brutal display of merit that, with a final savage strike, shatters the conjured blade sending it back to its plane of existence.

The loss of his blade and power behind the swing knocks the Thalmor agent off his feet. Briefly dazed by the fall, he barely has enough time to erect a ward as searing hot flames expel from behind the warrior's helmet. The heat licking around the shield a testament to the attack's ferocity, thankfully the attack ended shortly before the spell had run its course.

_Yol Toor Shul_, or Flame breath as it is known in the tongues of man, was an iconic attack of the Dov. It was a devastating attack that burned all in its path. However, it was a tiring attack and left the warrior fatigued his head swimming from the pain and blood loss. The melee was dragging on, the Elf pulling out spell after spell out of his sleeve to counter his sword and shouts. The Altmer's engrained preference towards the mystic arts allowed him to regenerate magicka quickly and thus continue to harass the Nord with ranged spells, keeping him from finishing the fight. He briefly entertained summoning Odahviing to finish the tenacious Elf off but dismissed it as swiftly as it came; the dragon was already engaged in battle against the Thalmor's agents further south.

While the Nord caught his breath, it gave the Altmer ample time to regain his footing and put some distance between them. Though he loathed admitting it, the Nordic king was winning this fight as the combined might of his sword and Thu'um wore away at his defenses. He needed backup and fast, and with a quickened pace the Thalmor mage retreats from the duel.

Shaking the encroaching darkness from his vision, the armored Nord spies his prey escaping, and with a bellowing roar pursues him, armor clattering as he gives chase. "You won't escape Ondolemar! Face your death with courage!"

The Nord, quickly closing the distance with his large powerful legs, despite his rapidly depleting lifeblood, elicits a curse from the fleeing Altmer. In no possible scenario could he get to help before the armored soldier overtook him. A final desperate strategy crosses his mind as he slides to a stop and reaches into his robe withdrawing a black crystal. Holding it outstretched, a string of strange words slip past his lips, praying to Auri-El for success. The words of the ancients ignite a force within the crystal wrapping his body in a strange glow, it seems though that the deities would spurn Ondolemar's prayer as the encompassing shadow of the Nord breaks him from his mystic trance.

Ondolemar could only watch as the demonic sword rockets down towards his head. Instead of the bite of its edge against his flesh, an unknown force draws the blade down onto the crystal. Everything around the two warriors mutes as the sword contacts the crystal, only a faint steady hum rising from the two objects. The hum tempo increased swiftly until the forest echoes a deafening whine, the black crystal shines gold for a moment before cracks litter its pristine surface. Whatever energy was contained within the crystal's protective casing was suddenly and violently released in a blinding light and the last sound the Thalmor agent heard before the light engulfed him was the howl of the Nord and his own panicked shout.

* * *

A hoarse cough rips Ondolemar from the embrace of the night as his vision begins to clear, ears still ringing from the strange explosive discharge. Though still dazed from it, Ondolemar can make out the charred remains of several trees. It seemed that when the Nord damaged the soul gem its energy released with devastating results. A victorious smirk graces his lips, as the warrior's form is nowhere in sight. A sinister chuckle slips through this teeth followed directly by an indescribable pain flooding his Elven form. Slender fingers trace his chest slowly; the sticky feeling of his life fluid engorging the cloth robe underneath his fingers, the digits slow egress up suddenly halts at the sensation of a rough, jagged protrusion.

A horrified gasp escapes his lips as Ondolemar's eyes slowly trail down, stopping at the brown and red bulge jutting from his robe; "N-no" he manages to croak out as stares disbelievingly at the tree branch. Hands glowing white, a healing spell, something to stave off death's hand but Ondolemar cannot keep the spell active, his concentration broken by pain and diminishing life. In a desperate final push, his hands shine like the sun before diminishing, magicka leaving him snuffing out the spell, hands losing their strength and slumping to his side in a puddle of his own blood. The Thalmor wizard's blood coated the emerald green grass in a sickly brown, dousing the encroaching flames.

* * *

"Lord Thorer!" the cries of several soldiers echo throughout the forest, the battle long since won in their favor. Hours of searching the forested cliff gave them no indication of their king's location, only signs that he had indeed engaged the Thalmor General.

"General Tullius! I've found something!"

The call shook the Imperial General from the tree he was examining; a distinct gouge in the tree was a clear sign that the Skyrim lord had waged his battle here. The quickness of his stride belayed his stoicism. Closing the distance, he comes upon a grim scene; a large section of the forest lay charred and barren from an unknown force, several meters from the site lay a single figure slumped against a large oak trunk. The distinct black and gold clothing was a clear sign that the deceased was not the missing High-King of Skyrim, but his opponent. Kneeling next to corpse, careful to avoid the copious puddle of blood, and pulling the Elf's head up, the Altmer's face now unobstructed by hair and hood, a snort escapes the aged Legionnaire as he drops the head.

"Ondolemar; seems like that bastard finally got what was coming to him. Shame it was a tree and not an axe."

Leathery wings breaking through the air as a massive shadow blots out the peaking moons, leaving the bewildered legionaries frozen in place. Memories of the Dragon Crisis still fresh in their minds, and despite the _Dov_ pledging to assist the Dovahkiin in his war against the Mer many of the neophyte troops still feared their wraith. Wind gusts generated from the flapping of his massive wings the ancient _Dovah_ lands heavily in the dirt, a curtain of leaves filling the skyline.

His men staggering back from the massive creature, most only knowing of the mythic creatures from rumor and legend, Tullius barely acknowledges the beast's arrival, introduced to the ancient dragon long ago; enjoying many interesting discussion on numerous occasions. Paarthurnax giving the frightened _Muz_ little heed, examines the scorched landscape carefully before resting his gaze upon the Aldmerian General, though he would never speak of it to any other then the Dovahkiin, the stories of the elf had given the beast a desire to end the _Mer's_life just as the Dovahkiin had desired.

His voice, deep and lyrical rumbles through the wooded plains as he examines the Altmer's corpse, a discerning gleam in his eye, "So the _Mer_ meet his end in battle, the _Dovahkiin_ spoke to me praying for a moment to rend him many times."

The dragon's eyes focuses intently on the robed corpse before drawing in a gust of air, exhaling it moments later with enough force to rustle the branches. A disapproving grunt echoes from the throat of the beast as narrows his gaze on the corpse.

"Magics, as old as the _Dov_, that fool Ondolemar tampered with forces he could not control and paid for it with his very life."

"It seems so." The old legionnaire mutters before turning his head, coming face to face with the huge form of Paarthurnax.

"Can you see any sign of Thorer? We can't locate his body and I doubt he'd quit the field while the battle still progressed."

Though Tullius had no way of knowing for sure, the gleam in the old dragon's eye had to be one of amusement. He was experienced in reading the expressions of men and mer. Not ancient children of Akatosh.

A throaty growl came from the elder dragon as he craned his head to the sky, watching the twin moons, Masser and Secunda crest over the canopies.

"The _Dovahkiin_ lives yet, but he is no longer in this world but do not fret Tullius. The legend of the _Dovahkiin_ is far from over, take heart and know he will return one day. _Ahkrin Dovahkiin_. "

Before the general could voice his question, the massive wings of the Greybeard leader whip gusts that force the legionnaire general to shield his eyes as he takes to the air, any further discussion between the two effectively silenced by the dragon's departure.

With a snort, Tullius brushes a small film of dust from his armor and casts his gaze back to the elf's corpse, _'I pray to Talos that you are right. This war cannot be won without the Nords and I cannot guarantee they will remain on the field without their king.'_

Shaking the doubt from his mind, he straightens his posture and the authoritative imperial general returns; "All right! Pack up and move out! We push to Kvatch and expel these Elven bastards out of our land!"

Choruses of affirmative grunts are his answer and, without sparing the corpse another glance, General Tullius of the IV Legion continues the Second Great War against the Aldmeri Dominion.

* * *

_A light that would dwarf the rays of the sun filled his eyes, blinding him to everything else. The wailing of his prey soon eclipsed by his own roar of pain, was this sorcery the Elf's doing? He could not remember, the only thing that occupies his mind was the searing pain flooding his body whether from the trio of arrows that still riddled his shoulder or the burning light that seemed to illuminate even the darkness of his vision._

A low grunt streams from his lips as the armored warrior's consciousness floods back to him, memories of his last waking moment finally seem to snap him from the gentle embrace of the night. Pain was the first thing he registered, the missiles still lodged deep within his body. With no small feat of strength, he forced himself to his knees. Eyes scanning the forest, while nothing of note to dissuade him, he swore that he was no longer in the dense forests of the Imperial homeland. The surroundings, although possessing foliage similar to Cyrodiil, it felt foreign to the armored Nord. Using his sword, he forced his weary body off the ground. Eyes scanning the forest, drawing in the sights and trying to gain his bearings, the familiar sound of steel cutting air interrupts him.

The broad head of a battle-axe buries itself into the soil next to him, the diminutive wielder bears it's fangs in rage, ripping the axe from the ground; it rears it back for another strike. Only to find the bite of the warrior's blade against its throat, a fountain of pungent black fluid erupting from the space its head once occupied.

Eyes narrowed at the strange creature but once again, his thoughts are interrupted by the advancing howls of more of them, this time a group of four human-like creatures standing roughly the same height as men charged towards him. Each was wielding weapons of similar poor design as the diminutive one's axe. An aggravated growl escapes his lips, drawing in a short breath he lets lose a defying shout, the ancient words of the _Dov_ echoing through the trees. A force unseen barrels into the charging group stripping the weapons from their hands and sending the unsuspecting two sprawled on the ground. Without missing a beat, the warrior closes the distance, disemboweling the standing creatures.

His armored boot struck another across the face, spilling more of the pungent fluid onto his armor. The final one scrambling to regain its weapon discovers the same booted foot crushing its hand into the dirt. Taking a moment to examine the creature, the Nord cannot identify it, _'A Daedra perhaps? No, they are nothing like them.'_

The creature, futility attempting to remove the offending boot from its arm, thrashes violently at the appendage, howling in pain and rage, trying the warrior's patience until another swift swing of his sword ends its struggle.

With the rush of battle rage ebbing away his remaining strength, he stumbles backwards, landing heavily against a tree, narrowly missing the trio of slender projectiles still embedded in his shoulder. The stifling pain that once accompanied the missiles now settling in as a dull throb, concern flooded his mind. If he didn't get them removed and the wound treated he would have more to worry about then being lost in a strange forest.

Rumblings from deeper in the tree line shifted his priorities once again; the beasts seemed to smell his blood and wished for more. The Nordic warrior, never one to disappoint a battle-ready foe, pushes off the tree to stand ready; a death in battle was preferred to bleeding out or succumbing to disease. Gripping the demonic blade tightly in his hand, he prepares to charge off to meet the creatures in a glorious end. A stern strong grip on his shoulder halts his advance, whipping his head around; a gentle but paternal voice greets him, low in a whisper.

"It would not be wise to engage them this way. They would overwhelm you swiftly." An older man clad in simple but effective armor, twin swords clasped across his back, stood behind him. A second warrior, hidden by the trees but not from the Nord's vision, kept a trained eye out for the creatures.

Dismissing the older man's concern with a snort the Nord shrugs the hand from his shoulder; "A true Nord does not flee at the sight of a foe, he fights until he cannot lift a blade and keeps fighting until his final breath."

Not one to be deterred, the older warrior steps next to larger man, standing half a head below the injured warrior; "I understand but would you not prefer to face your enemy at your best, to engrave in their minds the true ferocity of your people?"

Any argument the Nordic warrior had prepared falters at the older man's words, beneath his helmet, he casts a tired glare at the approaching horde.

"Ser Duncan! We must leave now, the horde approaches!" the low hiss of Duncan's young charge cuts the silence.

Before Duncan can continue his argument, a tired sigh erupts from Nord; "Your words ring true, Duncan was it? I will acquiesce but know that I hold no trust of you, or your companion."

An understanding nod, "Do you need assistance?"

Sheathing his strange blade the larger man scoffs and follows the retreating forms of Duncan's companions; "Tis but a scratch, I've had worse."

A mirthful smile graces the older man's lips as he follows the injured warrior, the oncoming horde none the wiser to their escape.

* * *

The arduous journey from the wilds was stressful enough on a healthy traveler. Further compounded by his injuries and the fact he had been in a battle for days prior finally took its toll on the armored Nord. Not more than a day's walk from their destination did his body finally falter. If not for the helpful strength of Duncan, he would have found himself face down in the mud. Struggling a bit, the older warrior leans his newest companion on his shoulder, voice strained by his weight, he addresses the slender warrior who dashed to his aid.

"Daveth, hurry forward and have a healer prepared."

"Right away, Duncan." The lad accepts eagerly before dashing forward, leaving the two alone on the road, a stifling silence lying thick in the air.

The uncomfortable was silence broken by the strained voice of the injured Nord; "You never told me where we were heading."

Duncan considered his answer carefully, a sly smile graces his bearded face; "And you never told me your name Ser. Perhaps we can barter a trade?"

From beneath the helmet, Duncan could literally hear the warrior's lips curl into a sneer at his joke. Moments more pass in silence until he answered.

"Thorer, Amon Thorer of Ralfalk"

"I see Ser Thorer well we are-"

"Amon" The Nordic native interrupts, seemingly annoyed at the formal addressing.

"Excuse me?"

"Just call me Amon, you have no reason nor need to address me with formality."

Glancing at the strange warrior leaning heavily against his shoulder Duncan could not help but let his lips curl upwards, "As you wish Amon, to answer your early inquiry our destination is Ostagar. The armies of King Cailan Theirin have gathered with the surrounding vassals an army to battle the Darkspawn, the creatures you encountered earlier."

"Those creatures, darkspawn, hold true to the name you have bestowed upon them. Never in my time have I battled against such malice without purpose. A lofty goal indeed, I can only assume that is why you have carried me this far, you wish me to assist in this battle that is brewing."

Duncan did not answer him, instead focusing upon the towering gates that surrounded the old fortress, dilapidated from centuries of disuse and exposure did not distract from the splendor it radiated.

"The Tevinter Imperium built Ostagar long ago to prevent the Wilders from invading the northern lowlands. It is fitting we make our stand here, even if we face a different foe within the forest. The king's forces have clashed with the darkspawn several times, but here is where the bulk of the horde will show itself."

Crossing the long bridge overlooking the forest, they finally reach the encampment; waiting at the entrance is a regal man in massive golden armor, a stark contrast to twin guards standing ready to defend him. Surprise lights up Duncan's face at the man's presence; "King Cailan? I did not expect-"

A bright smile crosses the King's face at Duncan's bemused tone; "A royal welcome? I was beginning to worry you'd miss all the fun!"

Shaking his head with a mirthful smile, Duncan would shake the King's hand but the need to keep the injured Nord on his feet took precedence; "Not if I could help it, your Majesty."

"Then I'll have the mighty Duncan at my side in battle after all! Glorious! The other Wardens told me you'd found a promising recruit. I take it this is he?" Cailan inquiries, eyeing the large armored figure leaning against his friend then the crestfallen look upon the aged man's face.

"Sadly, no, your majesty. Teryn Cousland and his wife are dead. Arl Howe has shown himself a traitor and overtaken Highever Castle. Had I not escaped, he would've told you any story he wished."

Surprise floods Cailan's face as he paces back and forth, clearly not expecting such distressing news. Turning on his heel, he locks his gaze with the older Warden; "Fergus Cousland had already arrived with Highever's men, we were just awaiting his father. I... can scarcely believe it! How could Howe think he would get away with such treachery? As soon as we are done here, I will turn my army north and bring Howe to justice."

Dismissing those thoughts from his mind, he returns his gaze to the armored warrior, "Then who is this warrior, Duncan?"

"This, your majesty is Amon Thorer of Ralfalk. I discovered him engaged in battle with the darkspawn; the horde is pressing closer each day."

"I see. You certainly look as if you can handle yourself in battle, Amon Thorer of Ralfalk. Perhaps once you have been tended to we can talk more. I must, however, cut this short. I should return to my tent. Loghain waits eagerly to bore me with his strategies."

Amon dips his head respectfully but does not answer the King, his wounds and fatigue beginning to wear his consciousness away. Sensing his distress, Duncan departs one further piece of news to the King.

"Your uncle sends his greetings and reminds you that Redcliffe forces could be here in less than a week."

"Ha! Eamon just wants in on the glory. We've won three battles against these monsters and tomorrow should be no different. However, I truly must go before Loghain sends out a search party. Farewell, Grey Wardens!"

Duncan and Amon watch the enthusiastic King disappear from sight before continuing further on, into the main camp. Amon's voice, nothing more than a hoarse whisper echoing from within his helmet; "He mentioned Grey Wardens, what are you hiding from me old man?"

"Later Amon, once you have been tended to, I will explain everything. Ah, it seems Daveth has found you a healer."

A short distance away, the thin young man who accompanied Duncan earlier, stands on his toes, waving frantically in the air to garner their attention, at his side is an older woman clad in a simple brown robe. A gentle caring look spread across her slightly wrinkled features. If not for the silver grey hair adorning her head, she could be mistaken for a woman half her age.

* * *

"_Gud faen! _Watch it, you witch!" Amon's gruff voice howls out in agony, attracting the attention of several passing soldiers, who either watch the scene in amusement or sympathy. In response to his curses, the source of his agony frowned clearly displeased with her patient's inability to remain idle. Despite her tender treatment, his constant fidgeting served to further his discomfort eliciting another round of curses, all in a tongue she could not easily identify.

"It is your own fault for squirming, now sit still so I can apply the salve properly, or do you wish for me to start over?"

Amon's only answer was a growl and mutterings. Taking that as compliance, she continues her doting, carefully removing the final slender shaft from his shoulder. Examining the strange arrow for a moment before tossing it aside, she dribbles a small amount of water over the wound. Thankfully, the strange missiles had not injured anything important and the accompanying numbness that had rendered his arm ineffective was merely a simple poison, applied to the missiles' tips, once removed and the wound flushed, the effects had diminished. Amon hisses in protest to the waters invasion of his open wound, this however changes into a sigh of relief as the restorative magic that surrounds the elder woman's hands help to accelerate the process. Three gaping holes in the tanned, scarred flesh now appear as blotchy circular marks; prepping a bandage with a restorative salve soaked into it, she wraps it carefully around his shoulder and chest, his chest piece taken by Duncan to be refurbished by the quartermaster.

"There we are now, I have removed the shafts and sealed the wound but I wouldn't strain it too much. It still needs to heal on its own." The aged healer chastises, a motherly tone creeping into her voice as she pats his back.

"I doubt he'll listen to you serah, he doesn't seem the type to listen to anyone." The amused voice of the rogue Daveth makes itself known as he watched the whole ordeal with barely contained mirth.

At the sound of his voice, Amon's head whipped to face him, a single ashy grey eye boring a hole into his with a glare that could melt steel. His helmet removed along with his chest piece gave the healer and rogue full view of his features.

A long scar tracing vertically across his left eye, the iris a milky white, damaged by whatever caused the scar, accompanying it are three thick lines trailing the right side of his face, seemingly caused by a wild animal's claws, both scars old and long since healed telling a tale of the warrior's many battles. Long untamed chestnut brown hair spilling across his back and upon his chin more hair rests, long and as unkempt as those that rest upon his dome. Together they paint a frightening picture of an imposing man, the glare directed at the young rogue relents his amused attack, raising his hands in surrender.

A pat on his back signaled the older woman had finished her tending, allowing him to rise from the stool he was occupying, for what seemed like an eternity. A grunt of relief escapes his lips as his joint pop back into place. His large form both tall and wide dwarfs the older woman's, though no fear at his size was evident on her features as she hands him a simple shirt to slip over his bare chest.

"I do not doubt that Daveth, I have seen so many of his type brush off wounds as if they were the bites of insects, only to be dragged back. He is a big boy though, I will stop mothering him. He has much to do, I suppose."

While the two share a laugh at his expense, Amon busied himself flexing and un-flexing his fingers. A small twinge of numbness remained but he had full motion back and that was his only concern. Without his shield, he would be less effective in combat, and if the rumors of the horde were true, he would need to be at full strength to banish these monsters back to whatever realm they were birthed. A brief thought of home filtered into his mind before it squashing it as quickly as it had come. His men were not helpless and Tullius could lead the allied armies in his absence. Skyim would miss its King but they would persevere until he returned, for now he had to focus on the immediate threat. Once that was taken care of, he could then inquire about a way home.

Ceasing the ministrations of his fingers, Amon turned to face the older woman, and without a word, he dipped his head in a bow. Clearly confusing her as he spoke; "I thank you for your assistance in this. If there is anything I can do to repay it, you need not hesitate to ask."

A maternal look graced her features as she waved his gratitude off, "Think nothing of it dear, just keep safe in the upcoming battle and that is all the thanks I will need."

Her smile seemed to be infectious as even Amon's lips to curl upwards slightly, but the telltale sounds of chainmail rustling removed it from his lips as he turned to see Duncan approaching. Wynne, sensing no need for her presence any longer, bids the warriors farewell and returned to her duties with the mages. Duncan arriving just as she left, watches her departure for a moment before turning his attention back to his two charges.

"I see she has finished her tending. How is your arm, Amon? Better?" A curt nod and a grunt is his affirmative.

"That's good, the smith informed me that your armor was only slightly damaged and would be ready within the hour. In the meantime, Daveth." Turning his gaze to the young rogue, who upon being the center of attention straightened his posture slightly, the early teases gone. "Seek out Ser Jory and meet me by the fires. It is time to discuss the Joining."

Receiving his order Daveth jogs off to find the third recruit, disappearing from view in moments. Duncan turns his gaze back to Amon, confusion clearly written on the larger man's face despite the stoicism.

"Amon, if you could seek out Alistair, a Grey Warden, and bring him to the fires near the kennels. He should be past the quartermaster's tents. I know I haven't answered your questions yet but I will reveal everything once we are all gathered, please be patient."

Amon narrows his eyes slightly and studies the older Warden's face for a moment before relenting. Turning on his heel, he proceeds off to find the misplaced Warden. Slipping the simple white shirt on, he makes his way towards the Warden's location, clad only in the simple shirt, boots and greaves. His helmet, gauntlets and chest piece were cleared of blood and repaired while his wounds were tended for. Amon felt naked without the sleek black armor covering his form; the ebony plate had protected him for many years, ever since he first constructed the armor, back during the turbulent months of the Dragon Crisis.

The Daedric longsword he wielded with masterful skill rested with his shield in Duncan's care. Though he had his reservations about relinquishing them to a man he barely knew, Amon supposed that if the older man truly wished to do him harm then he wouldn't have wasted the time to assist him.

His only weapon, aside from the basic destruction spells and his Thu'um was the curved dagger he received from the former leader of Skyrim's chapter of the Dark Brotherhood. The Blade of Woe, Astrid had called it. A nasty little blade that seemed to siphon life from the bite of the blade.

The trip through the past occupied the time needed to clear the distance, his arrival greeted by an argument between a man clad in robes similar to Wynne's, who he assumed was a Mage, and an armored fair-haired man, who had to be the other Grey Warden Duncan sent him to fetch. All-star? Allienster? The Warden's name escaped him but his errand was simply to find the man, not befriend him.

"What is it now? Haven't the Grey Wardens asked more than enough of the Circle?"

Agitation clear in the mage's voice as he laces his arms across his chest, a glare leveled at the young man before him; if he noticed Amon's arrival, he did not acknowledge him.

"I simply came to deliver a message from the Revered Mother, Ser mage. She desires your presence."

As if it was possible, further agitation creeps into the mage's voice at the mention of the women; "What her Reverence 'desires' is of no concern to me! I am busy helping the Grey Wardens-by the King's Orders, I might add!"

"Should I have asked her to write a note?" A lip curling into a sly smile as the warrior's tone loses its formal neutral tone and slips into a more sardonic one.

The mage however is hardly amused by his tone, "Tell her I will not be harassed in this manner!"

"Yes, I was harassing you by delivering a message." The young man barely contained the urge to roll his eyes at the Mage, his increasing annoyance beginning to wear on his nerves as well.

"Your glibness does you no credit."

"Here I thought we were getting along so well. I was even going to name one of my children after you...the grumpy one."

Throwing his hands into the air, the mage finally relents to the warrior's demands, "Enough! I will speak to the woman if I must!" Pushing past Amon without even sidestepping the Nord, "Get out of my way, fool!"

A curse formed on Amon's lips as he turned to give the mage a word or two, the voice of the sardonic warrior halts his biting reply however.

"You know, one good thing about the Blight is how it brings people together."

A single brow arches towards his hair at the sarcastic reply; the young Warden was beginning to remind Amon of another. '_Not a compliment,'_ he reminded himself.

"You are a strange man."

As if the man did not hear him, he continues his thought; "It's like a tea party; we could all stand in a circle and hold hands. That would give the darkspawn something to think about."

A sigh escapes Amon's lips as he could see how the mage could become irritated so quickly; The Warden's antics were tiresome.

"Wait, we haven't met, have we? I don't suppose you happen to be another mage?"

Fixing the man with a flat look, Amon let the question linger for a moment before answering; "No."

A look of delight leaps to his face, "Ah, good! Then that must make you Duncan's new recruit, I suppose. Glad to meet you. As the junior member of the order, I'll be accompanying you when you prepare for the Joining. Oh yes, my name is Alistair by the way, Duncan mentioned your name was Aedan I believe?"

"No. Amon Thorer of Ralfalk." Amon held up his hand as Alistair opened his mouth to greet him; "There will be time for pleasantries later, Alistair. For now Duncan has summoned us to the fires, near the kennels. He mentioned something about the Joining."

Slightly put off by the larger man's abrupt tone, he nevertheless nodded his head and proceeded to follow him as they made their way towards the meeting place. As they passed the through the camp Amon noticed the quartermaster wave him over. Without another word, he broke away from Alistair and stood before the quartermaster.

"Ser, I have finished repairing and cleaning your armor. A simple job, despite it's fine craftsmanship and unique materials. I would be quite pleased if you could tell me where you came upon such fine armor!" the glint in the man's eye caused Amon's lips to curl upwards. Like a child with a shiny new toy, his curiosity uninhibited by his age.

"Perhaps later my good man, I am in a hurry."

"Ah yes of course, forgive me Ser, your armor is over there." The quartermaster gestures to a crate where his breastplate, helm and gauntlets rest. The armor was buffed to a mirror-like sheen. Accomplished skill allowed him to slip the armor on with little trouble. The familiar weight of the dark armor lifted the weight of doubt. Now all he needed was his sword and shield, then he could take on anything. Feeling immortal again, he defers from sliding the helmet over his features, instead keeping it under his arm until he needed it.

With a curt nod, Amon continues his journey to the large bonfire, noticing four figures waiting; Duncan, the mirthful rogue Daveth, Alistair and another warrior he could only assume was the Ser Jory that Duncan had sent the rogue to fetch.

"Ah, you are finally here, with your armor as well, good. I'll hope you are ready to begin preparations." Turning his head he regards Alistair with a knowing look; "Assuming, of course, Alistair is done riling up the mages."

Shrugging his shoulders, he cannot help but smirk; "What can I say, the Revered Mother ambushed me. With the way she wields guilt, they should stick her in the army"

"She forced you to sass the mage did she? We cannot afford to antagonize anyone, Alistair. We don't need to give anyone more ammunition against us."

"You are right Duncan. I apologize."

Returning his gaze to the three warriors before him; "Now then, since you are all here we can begin. You four will be heading into the Korcari Wilds to perform two tasks; the first is to obtain three vials of darkspawn blood, one for each recruit."

"By Talos' hold, I haven't agreed to do anything yet. You still owe me an explanation."

"Of course, my apologizes. You, along with the others," Duncan gestures to the two warriors next to him. "Have been selected to join the ranks of the Grey Wardens, as Warden it is our sole duty to battle the Darkspawn."

Lacing his arms across his armored chest, Amon levels Duncan with a flat look, "And? There are many organizations formed to battle a specific threat. What makes yours special enough to convince me to join?"

Despite the young warrior's dismissive tone, Duncan could tell he was curious; "The Darkspawn are not a simple nest of spiders. These beasts are a plague that will consume the world and it is the duty of all Grey Wardens to prevent that."

Amon's stoic mask remained but on the inside, he could not help but roll his eyes at the claim, _'Like I haven't heard that line before.'_

With a huff, Amon forces his arms from his chest, slipping his helmet over his head; "Fine, not like it'll kill me to join your merry band."

A knowing gleam shines in Duncan's eyes at the mention but he chooses not to elaborate, "Now, your second task. There was once a grey warden archive in the wilds, abandoned long ago when we could no longer afford to maintain such remote outposts. It has recently come to our attention that some scrolls had been left behind, magically sealed to protect them. Alistair, I want you to retrieve these scrolls if you can.

A curt nod from the junior Grey Warden is Duncan's affirmative. Daveth's curious voice breaks the momentary reprieve; "What are these scrolls exactly?"

"Old treaties, promises of support made to the Grey Wardens long ago. They were once only considered formalities. With so many forgotten their commitments to us, I suspect it may be a good idea to have something to remind them with."

Amon raps his fingers against his armor, his patience clearly running thin at not only the lengthy explanation but also the lull in combat. His Nord blood was screaming for violence.

"So find some paper and shed some blood, simple enough. Can we go now?" An impatient tone evident in his voice, causing the elder Warden to smile; the eagerness of youth was certainly something.

"Of course Amon, I have instructed the gate sentry to allow you passage." Duncan gestured to his left. "Make haste, if you can. The wilds are a dangerous place to be even without the presence of the darkspawn, more so after the day's end."

Alistair and the two recruits immediately make their way to the gate. Amon, however, remains static with a look of clear disapproval evident despite the sleek black metal obscuring his features. Duncan's impassive smile further agitating him, "Where is the rest of my equipment, old man?"

"I have kept it safe, Amon, with the packs. Here let me fetch them."

While the Nordic warrior remained, the junior Warden and two recruits wait patiently at the gate, Daveth's mirthful voice cutting the silence that surrounded them; "So what do you two think of our newest hire? Quite impressive, no?"

Redcliffe's Knight sighs tiredly, a hand coming to rest upon his forehead, "Daveth, you are becoming worse than a scullery maid. Idle gossip, really?"

Rolling on his heels in boredom and excitement, Daveth's eyes dart between his two companions hoping for the conversation to continue, barely contained mirth shining through. "I've seen him fight, like a beast. With him and our very own Warden guide, we should be able to finish our task toot sweet."

Another sigh escapes the Knight's lips as he looks towards the treetops poking over the fortress walls, "So long as he does his part, I do not care how he fights. I just want to finish this and return to Redcliffe. Helena waits for me."

A frown mars Alistair's normally chipper appearance, watching the two warriors from a distance. "I don't like him, something feels off. Not to mention how rude he is. Duncan saves his life and he talks to him as if Duncan was the dirt beneath his boots."

Jory merely shrugs his shoulders, arms lacing over his armored chest "Mayhap he is just stressed. I know this whole ordeal is wearing my last nerve. We can't all be as optimistic as King Cailan."

Frown still present, Alistair keeps his gaze upon the tall warrior as he approaches, "Maybe…" Suspicion lingering, he leads the group after their late arrival finally joins.

The wilds await, a new adventure unfolds as the High-King of Skyrim and Dragonborn Amon Thorer embroils himself in another conflict that will shape the world. Will he find his way back to Tamriel or will he finally pass to Sovengarde in a foreign land. Only time and fate can tell the tale.

* * *

_**And of course me but I won't mention that in story. In my savefile I had maxed all skills and finished all (Yeah right) quests, however for the sake of, well not being a god character, Amon is a Melee priority character, longsword and shield. He can pick locks, sneak, cast novice level spells, etc but generally, he will leave those tasks those trained to do so. In a pinch, he will but otherwise, why waste his time and effort when he has companions?**_

_**Chapter one down, Chapter two next time!**_

**Fus Ro Dah - force balance push – Unrelenting Force, Iconic Dragon shout in the whole game. Anyone who has played should know about it.**

**Yol Toor Shul – Fire Inferno Sun – Flame Breath, Standard dragon attack, crispy.**

**Auri-El – Basically the Elven Akatosh, chief deity in most Elven pantheons. **

**Dov, Dovah, Dovahkiin - Dragon (plural), Dragon (Single) and Dragonborn (protagonist) All standard words in Skyrim. **

**Ahkrin Dovahkiin - ****Courage Dragonborn – Why? Cause why not. **

**Ralfak – Doesn't exist as far as I know, but I didn't want to give him a real town and figured I'd make up one. Let's just say it's a tiny settlement that has no real importance. **

**Aedan Cousland - The Human Noble was always my choice for Warden, so I figured that's who Duncan would go for, however seeing how this is a crossover. Aedan Cousland perishes with his parents and Duncan finds Amon. **

**Gud faen – Norwegian for God damnit, the lack of a proper Nordic language in Skyrim I turned to real life Nordic countries; Denmark, Finland, Iceland, Norway, and Sweden. **

Dominion


	2. The Blood that Binds Us

**Next Chapter, took longer than I hoped because I got stuck on one scene that made me just lose a hundred IQ points every time I tried to finish it and my original beta decided to go AWOL. **

"**sword go staby staby hurrah!" - Ginyou Rinsom's exact words when trying to write. **

**Q&A time!**

**JakMartheDarkWarrior –I believe I said he completed all faction quest, that includes the Companions. As for the werewolf thing, just wait and see! Didn't I mention what shield? Oh well, It's an Ebony shield, like his armor. And I don't think the Dovahkiin is supposed to be a god, he has the soul of a dragon but he is still mortal. Thanks for the praise. **

**ARavingLooony – Oh Amon will have quite the interesting scene with the High Dragon. In my opinion, the Taint is not some common disease that a Cure Disease potion could fix, it would be amusing for him to try but I don't believe that Ferelden has any of the components he'd need to brew one. **

**killroy64 – It's kinda the whole point of the story for Amon to be the Warden, he is the hero after all and needs to be in the center spotlight. The same could be said about being the Dovahkiin tying him to the Elder Scrolls world, and since this is in no way canonical, you never know what can happen in the future! As for Alistair or Morrigan killing the Dragon….No one but Amon kills em best! Except for maybe…..Meeko…DAMN DOG, I AM THE DOVAHKIIN.**

**Guest - Um, I could've but frankly I like the Ebony plate better than Daedric and I figured it'd attract a lot less attention than a full suit of demonic looking armor. In most of my games featuring swords and magic I usually tend to focus on sword and shield, sometimes two-handed but in this case I prefer S&S. Not to say that Amon can't/won't use a greatsword if he feels the need, he is just preferential to the onehanders. **

**To everyone else, thanks for the reviews.**

**Copyrights remain with their respective owners. Beta'd by AbatedDust**

**Chapter 2. The Blood that Binds Us.**

* * *

Wolves, it was always wolves or skeevers. Every single time he set out on an adventure or a stroll in the country the pests appear and harass him. Regardless, they always arrive at the same fate. Amon considered this, dragging the flat of his blade across one of the slain beast's flank. Bits of gore and fur staining the Daedric blade now painting the deceased wolf's gray fur.

Craning his head back, he spies Alistair pulling the roguish Daveth back to his feet, the unexpected onslaught of the pack catching the young thief off guard. Thankfully, despite the surprise, the beasts of the wilds have inflicted no injuries. They were swiftly dealt with before they prepared to continue. Though still weary of his "companions" Amon could not help but admire their skill, thoughts of his youth and his service within the Imperial Legion surface in his mind but swiftly dispel at Alistair's sudden intrusion.

"Daveth is alright, we should keep going before we attract more of the beasts."

A grunt is Amon's only reply as he continues forward, followed swiftly by the rest of the Warden hopefuls. A short distance later, they happen upon wreckage and the bodies of several slain soldiers. Destroyed carts and slaughtered bovine stain the damp forest soil alongside them as they venture further down the path. A strangled groan, at first barely audible, echoes louder calling the group over. A soldier crawls forward, every movement causing a gasp of pain. Despite Alistair's sardonic quip, concern is etched in the face of the young Warden.

"Well, he's not half as dead as he looks, is he?"

"Who... is that? Grey... Wardens...?"

Pulling a roll of bandages from his pouch Alistair carefully attends to the soldier's injured waist. Far from the most competent of healing, it would suffice until the young soldier can stumble back to camp.

"My scouting band was attacked by Darkspawn! They came out of the ground...I've got to...return to camp..."

His ministrations finished, Alistair carefully helps the wounded man to his feet, catching him as he stumbles. He is clearly not well enough to travel, but the group's pressing assignment forgoes any thought of assisting the soldier further.

"Thank you! I...I've got to get out of here!"

Grunting painfully, the soldier limps away, the assembled group watching him briefly. Jory's startled voice however draws them back.

"Did you hear? An entire patrol of seasoned men killed by Darkspawn."

Alistair's firm grip on his shoulder and calming voice do little to idle the knight's fears.

"Calm down, Ser Jory. We'll be fine if we're careful."

"Those soldiers were careful, and they were still overwhelmed. How many darkspawn can the four of us slay? A dozen? A hundred? There's an entire army in these forests."

"There are darkspawn about, but we are in no danger of walking into the bulk of the horde."

"How do you know? I'm no coward, but this is foolish and reckless. We should go back."

While Alistair assists the soldier and now argues with Jory; Amon, and Daveth keep an eye open for the aforementioned horde, their ceaseless prattle however begins to wear on the Nord's nerves.

"If you do not wish for the horde to be drawn to us, I believe we should stop dallying and make haste to finish our goal."

Amon's words seem to ring true with the startled knight, as he submits to the larger man's reasons.

"That's…true"

Alistair's grip on the knight's shoulder steeled as a reassuring smile spreads across his features.

"Know this: All Grey Wardens can sense Darkspawn. However cunning, I guarantee they won't take us by surprise. That's why I am here."

Daveth's chipper voice dashes whatever effect Alistair's words have upon the knight.

"You see, Ser Knight? We might die, but we'll be warned about it first."

"That's…reassuring?"

"That doesn't mean I'm here to make this easy, however. So let's get a move on."

The small group moves forward, passing even more corpses of the slain patrol and large ruins sunken into the murky depths, unaware of a lone beast that spies on them from above. The beast watches them proceed past its vision, its strange golden eyes scrutinizing the four men who invade the wilds that were its home. The two fools and the coward interest the beast little, mere weak men, it thinks. However, its gaze lingers on the larger man adorned in strange armor, the aura he extrudes is what attracts the beast to him. The beast watches the group for as long as they remain within sight before dashing off into the wilds, a goal in mind as it disappears in the brush.

Daveth stops at a fallen trunk near one of the dilapidated buildings, curiously staring at a lone plant sprouting from the rotting bark.

"What is it thief?"

Amon asks gruffly, annoyed at the constant halt in their quest.

"A moment... this flower, white with a red center. The kennel master at Ostagar was asking about these."

"What of it?"

"The kennel master said that this flower can help dogs that get sick from biting darkspawn. At any rate, he was offering a reward if someone went into the wilds and brought him one."

"Hmph, never one to turn down a simple errand for a bit of gold."

Swiftly but carefully, Amon snatches the flower from its perch and slips it softly into his hip pouch, after their immediate errand is accomplished he can see about that reward. No sooner had he secured the plant, does an arrow appear in wood with a thunk, mere inches from where his hand once lain.

"Darkspawn approaching!"

Alistair roars, ripping his shield and longsword from his back, meeting the nearest darkspawn's own with a clang. Jory's greatsword leaves a trail in the dirt as he heaves his blade up and across the unarmored chest of a hapless hurlock, an arc of vile black blood accompanying the creature to the ground. Turning on his heel, he intercepts another curved darkspawn blade meant for his head. Forcing the creature back with a strike of his hand and pommel before ending the foul beast's life, the heavy blade pierces the hurlock's chest, skewering its heart.

Daveth's knives flash through the air in a flurry of swipes, his opponent a diminutive genlock wielding a wicked mace deflects the blows with practiced skill. The duel comes to a violent end. Feinting with his left dagger he forces the mace away and slips the blade beneath the genlocks's chin, the cold steel easily piercing the soft flesh and erupting through to its mouth. Blackened blood dribbles onto the hilt, the sticky fluid leaving Daveth nauseous.

Alistair, fairing no worse, ends the life of an inept hurlock as it charges forward only to lose its head as the hardened iron blade cleaves through the unprotected skin. As swiftly as he dispatches one, another takes its place, the spawn's hand axe meeting his shield. The dance lasts for a moment longer before Alistair's sword cuts across the hurlock's belly, spilling the befouled insides over the damp soil. The ambushing horde quickly falls to their might as Alistair lays his gaze upon the final member of their band.

Agile movements honed from nothing less than years of combat experience dazzle the Nord's opponents, a greatsword arcs to cleave him in two only to lodge in the dank dirt. A gray blur crosses the creature's vision before it turns black, it's meaningless life ends, the force of Amon's shield turning the hurlock's skull to fractured bone. Twisting under the strike of its partner, the sharpened edge of the ebony shield bites through the second hurlock's eyes. A swift slash down its chest ends its suffering. His sends the third and final hurlock sprawling to the ground with a thud. The corrupted being's life ends similarly to Jory's prey, the demonic blade spearing the organ through and leaving the horror a lifeless husk.

Slamming the Daedric blade against his shield, Amon grunts, clearly displeased with the brief but brutal conflict.

"Is this all that this horde can muster? Pathetic! The beasts of wilds pose more of a challenge then these _roska_."

The Nord's blood howls for further bloodletting, but his approaching companions force him to squash the desire. Slipping the Daedric blade back into the leather holster on his belt he turns towards them.

Though a little distressed at the man's desire for further bloodshed, Alistair says nothing as he urges them forward, wishing nothing more than to be free and clear of the accursed wilds.

A sense of dread and impatience hasten their pace as they quickly make their way through the ruined marsh, the occasional band of darkspawn or wolf pack slowing their progress. A bridge spanning the length of the river further halts their progress. A darkspawn stands centered on the bridge in defiance. Adorned in a strange cap and grasping an odd stick, its hands working a pattern, the energy gathering before it shines brightly. The group of recruits stares dumbfounded at the strange creature before Amon's harsh voice breaks the silence.

"Take cover!"

Harshly gripping Alistair's spaulder, the Dragonborn throws the young Warden to the ground behind a ruined pillar. The space that the sardonic junior formerly occupied explodes in a blazing inferno. The magicka-imbued thrall, does not give the group a chance to retaliate. It slings bolts of lightning and fireballs towards their stone barricade, harassing their position, eroding the ancient stone, and showering them in wedges of rock and clouds of dust.

Across the way, Alistair spies Daveth and Jory huddled behind a large fallen pillar also under siege, but it seems that the hurlock emissary decided that they are to be the focus of its harassing spells while the others are to be subjugated to a rain of arrows and bolts. Daveth, feeling brave, pokes his head out, but is simply greeted by a crossbow bolt whizzing past, narrowly missing his head. The scare banishes any remaining foolhardy bravery. He huddles further into the mud.

"Well now, this is a fine situation we have found ourselves in. Now all we need is dragon and some bandits to complete this little soiree."

Despite his nervous intent, the sarcastic quip does nothing to alleviate the mood. Failing to illicit a response from the Nord, Alistair nervously fingers the sword on his back.

"Any bright ideas on how to get out of this mess?"

Alistair can swear he hears the man beside him growl happily. If one could hear a smirk, it is definitely present in this man's voice.

"The only idea that springs to mind when threatened by magicka."

"What wou-"

Alistair fails to finish his sentence before the Nord vaults over the fallen column and dashes recklessly towards the emissary. A charged fireball erupting from the darkspawn's fingers, but is harmlessly flung aside by the enchanted ebony shield. Forgoing the blade at his side, he plants his shoulder into the mage's gut and with a roar, knocks the stunned darkspawn back. Not giving the darkspawn a chance to recover, the Nord wraps his thick arms around the creature's midsection, there is a grunt of exertion as he lifts the creature up off it's feet and, using the sum of the muscles in his powerful legs, drives the creature back onto the jagged spiky protrusions that make up the Darkspawns' barricade.

A shriek of pain erupts from the darkspawn before the beast slumps limply. Adrenaline pumping in his veins, the Nord instinctively deflects a barrage of bolts with his scorched shield. He turns to face his foe, ripping the blade from its holsters and stalking forward, intent to sate the bloodlust accumulating in his gullet. Though stunned by the insane charge, his three companions force themselves out of their stare and join the frenzy. Unfortunately, they have little to do once they cross the bridge, the Dragonborn having effortlessly torn through the horde.

A pleased growl rumbles past his lips as the final spawn falls to his blade. Whether it is his Nordic heritage or the souls of ancient dragons driving his lust for blood, he does not question. To relish in the pleasing euphoria of carnage is the one pure pleasure of any realm.

Slipping the blade back through its holster he spies his three battle companions approaching, each with a different emotion marring their features, but it is Alistair's disapproving frown that rubs the Nord the wrong way.

"That had to be the most reckless and foolhardy thing I have ever seen! And I once saw Warden Krull battle a pack of mabari naked."

A sneer present on his features, though unseen to the others, is Amon's response to Alistair's disapproval.

"Does it matter the means? The enemy impeding us is no more, and now we can venture forth."

Throwing his hands up in frustration the young warden brushes past the Nord and continues down the path to the Warden fortress. However, he is given pause at Daveth's voice.

"Um, Ser Alistair, were we not to gather the spawns' blood?"

Facing the pickpocket, he blinks owlishly before chuckling nervously, his hand rubbing the back of his neck.

"Oh right, sorry about that. Here."

He reaches into his pouch and hands each of the recruits a small vial. "Right. Just enough to fill the vial halfway. That should be more than enough."

Gathering blood from their respective kills, they each pocket the vial, careful not the break the slender containers. The first part of their assignment now complete all that remains is to retrieve the ancient scrolls, without another word the band proceeds forward along the trail, hopeful with no more resistance impeding them. After crossing a small river, they come upon a hill sloping slightly upwards. Adorning its peak is a ruined building, perhaps the home of the scrolls the Warden hopefuls were tasked to retrieve however, between them lay a mass of the accursed horde assembled along the trail seemingly waiting for their retrieval attempt.

"Hold."

Amon whispers, directing the group to a thicket of trees near the mouth of the hill. He commands the group to wait while the heavily armored warrior slowly creeps forward. Years of mastery in the heavy plate dulling its clank. That, coupled with his years as Grand Master of Skyrim's Thieves Guild allowed the Nord to creep silently closer. Moments later, he returns to the group his assessment of the battlefield complete.

"The horde holds the high ground, and a frontal assault is too risky for this group."

"Then what do you suggest we do Ser? Wait for the spawn to find us?"

Jory knew this was a stupid idea, even if Alistair was a Warden, they have no chance against such a large force; he should have just stayed in Redcliffe with Helana. Amon's curt response breaks the knights idling drawing his eyes back to the sleek black helmet as it stares towards the shifting horde.

"No."

A moment passes. Several battle plans form in the Dragonborn's head, most involve a well-placed Thu'um followed by wanton slaughter of their foes, but he finally decides against it. He is unsure how his companions will react to the dragon power and he would rather avoid answering any unneeded questions until this engagement with the horde ended. Perhaps once their King routed the spawn he could reveal his identity and procure a way back to Skyrim, until then, he would keep the totality of his repertoire veiled.

"Are any of you trained with in the bow?"

The Redcliffe Knight's hand rises slightly.

"I was trained briefly in the use whilst training for knighthood."

A grunt echoes from behind the helm as he rises to his feet.

"Then you will come with me and retrieve one of the spawn's. Alenstair, Daveth, find a way through the forest and lay in wait. Once we begin, launch your own attack on their flank. Routing the spawn should be simple. If you two can accomplish that, then this battle should end quickly."

"My name is Alistair, and by the Maker, hold on. What is this foolish plan you have brewing, Amon?"

"A foolish plan to slay the spawn and accomplish our goals. If you have a better idea then, please, by all means voice it."

When silence answers the Nord, he grunts and motions for the Redcliffe knight to follow retracing their steps to the bridge ambush.

Their forms, disappearing swiftly, Alistair watches them depart with a frown, the strange warrior's gruff attitude and reckless stratagems were starting to draw the jovial warden's ire. He is shaken from his thoughts as the mirthful pickpocket slaps his shoulder, passing him on his way to the forest. It seems that the young thief had no problem with Amon's plan. A sigh, which seemed to become frequent in this endeavor, escapes his lips as he jogs to catch up to the thief. How he wishes nothing more than for this ordeal to end.

* * *

"Ready, knight?"

"Yes, Ser Thorer."

Sneering at the formality, the Nordic king notches an arrow on the horde short bow. The wood gives off a strange energy, seeming to will his aim off his sighted target. Beside him, the Redcliff knight follows suit, unsteady fingers holding the cord taut.

"Now, aim for the armored one that appears to lead the formation. If we can slay him, the horde may rout."

Without waiting for his response, Amon begins a silent countdown. Sighting the armored spawn, he suddenly releases the taut bow. Twin slender shafts sail through the air with a sharp whistle. The first shaft deftly embeds itself through the exposed eye slit of a heavily armored spawn, dropping it quickly. The Knight's arrow strays from its intended course. It ricochets harmlessly off a nearby pillar. A curse passes the Knight's lips as he pulls a second arrow from the dirt, it had been years since he had last used a bow, and the spawn's bow seemed to reject his commands. Notching another he quickly draws the cord back and releases, the pleasing howl alerts him of his success as a bow wielding spawn tumbles down the embankment, his shot planted deeply in its chest. Beside him, his fellow recruit is having no such trouble with the accursed bow, loosing several projectiles in quick succession, each finding their mark within a spawn. Jory's curiosity of the strangely armored recruit continues to grow. Not only did the recruit wield a sword with masterful skill, now firing off arrows with the skill of the elite. Who is this man, to have mastered so many forms of combat despite his relatively youthful appearance? Perhaps once this foolish battle is concluded they can sit and engage in a proper discussion, however the task currently needed to be the forefront of his occupied thoughts.

A lone spawn rushes forward through the volley of arrows, swiftly closing the distance arcing its curved swords down, intent on separating the Nord from his own flesh. Despite its intent, the spawn's blade tastes only dirt, sidestepping the sloppy chop, Amon slams the ash-wood bow heavily against the spawn's head. The staggering blow stuns the beast long enough for Amon's hands to wrap themselves around the creature's throat, strangling the air from its lungs. A sudden grunt of effort and the spawn's neck fractures under his iron grip. Casting the limp beast aside, he rips his sword from his hip and charges forward to meet the remainder of the spawn. The inept skill of the beasts beginning to draw his ire and tire him of the conflict.

While they awaited Amon's signal to strike, Alistair is given ample time to think, though he had many other pressing subjects to dwell on, his thoughts always come back to their newest recruit. Something about the strange man screams danger, and while he is grateful to Amon for saving his life, he still could not bring himself to trust the man. Shaken from his thoughts by a sharp howl, Alistair draws the sword from his back and rushes forward to join the fray. A charging spawn finds himself halted by a blade jutting through his abdomen, the edged steel effortlessly slipping through the ramshackle metal plates, ending the abominations life. With a grunt, he boots the limp spawn from his blade, his companion, Daveth, springs from a nearby tree a knife flashing from his wrist towards the nearest Darkspawn. A pleasing squelch alerts the rouge to his victory as the stout genlock collapses onto the grass, a gleaming dagger jutting from its cranium. The already short celebration is further abbreviated as a hurlock appears from behind a tree, forcing the young rouge to evade the oncoming swipe.

* * *

The sudden melee was as brutal as it was brief the junior Warden and recruits make short swift work of the spawn, allowing them to complete the final portion of their mission. Setting foot within the ancient structure, the first thing Amon notices is how dilapidated the structure is, paralleling the sinking ruins in the surrounding marsh.

'_They are no Dwemer, that's for damn sure.' _

His fellow recruits are similarly unimpressed by the ancient structure, Jory running his hand across the worn pillars before shaking the dirt from it Alistair draws their attention back to their goal with a declaration.

"Ah, that must be the chest Duncan spoke of."

Alistair's short trip to the chest is interrupted as the junior Warden is roughly pushed aside by the advancing Nord, "Finally, let us complete this sojourn, and be out of the gods forsaken marsh. How I loathe wetlands." Kneeling next to the chest Amon pulled the lid open and peered inside, seeing nothing but cobwebs and dust he growls.

"There's nothing in here."

A sudden sound fills the Nordic King's ears, a soft scuffle of feet against the stone, in a flash his hand moves to his sword. The sultry voice of the intruder doing nothing to ease his tension as a purple clad form appears from above gliding gracefully down the incline.

"Well, well, what have we here? Are you a vulture, I wonder. A scavenger poking amidst the corpse whose bones were long since cleaned, or merely an intruder, come into these darkspawn-filled Wilds of mine in search of easy prey?"

Stopping at the base of the incline she stares into the eyes of each of the gathered men before settling her gaze upon Amon, her eyes narrow ever so slightly as she scrutinizes his form before a predatory smirk graces her lips.

Removing his hand from the grip of his blade Amon removed the enclosed helm from his head, tucking it neatly under his arm returning the women's gaze.

There was no denying her beauty, her face held a youthful embodiment of femininity but beneath her comely exterior Amon could tell she was no simple maiden, her stunning golden eyes held a vipers gleam, watching him like a cobra waiting for a moment of weakness before striking. Her body was quite unlike the typical women of his homeland, thin and in his opinion quite frail looking, she would do poorly in melee combat he mused. That particular line of thought suddenly flees his mind as the women sashays past, trailing a single finger across his breastplate Amon's single ashen grey eye locking with her twin golden orbs for a brief moment before the strange intruder breaks contact leaning casually against the far wall.

"What say you, hmm? Scavenger or intruder?"

The junior Warden of the group answers in his stead, "We are neither, we are Wardens, and you are in a tower we once owned."

"Tis a tower no longer, the Wilds have obviously claimed this desiccated corpse and you disturb those ashes none have touched for so long, why is that?"

Jutted his finger towards her Alistair levels the women with a disapproving glare, "we don't have to answer to you Chasnid." Leaning closer to his companion Alistair warns in a hushed voice. "Be careful Amon, if she s here, there may be others nearby."

"Ooh, you fear barbarians will swoop down upon you?" the women taunts making gestures high in the air to phonate her ridiculing.

Rolling his eyes at her jests a sardonic quip worms it way past his better judgment, "Yes, swooping is bad."

Behind them the lighthearted rouge steps away from the women doubt planted firmly in his voice, "She's a Witch of the Wilds, she is! She'll turn us into toads!"

"Witch of the Wilds? Such idle fancies, those legends. Have you no minds of you own?" Returning her golden gaze back upon the Nord, she beckons to him, "And what of you silent one, tell me your name and I shall tell you mine."

Shoving Alistair away he steps towards the strange woman eyeing her for a fleeting moment before dipping head, "I am Amon Thorer of Ralfalk, madam."

"Now that is a proper civil greeting, even here in the wilds, you may call me Morrigan. Shall I guess your purpose; you sought something in that chest, something that is here no longer."

Once again, Amon is interrupted by the junior Warden eliciting a growl from the agitated Nord, "Here no longer? You stole them didn't you; you're some kind of…sneaky witch thief! Those documents are Grey Warden property and I suggest you return them immediately."

Morrigan unamused by both the strange title and the accusation folds her arms across her ample bosom, glaring slightly at the Warden, "I will not for 'twas not I who removed them. Invoke a name that means nothing here any longer if you wish; I am not threatened." Again, Amon's hand makes it way to Alistair's spaulder pulling the Warden back towards the other recruits, sharply baring his teeth at the young Warden in disapproval and irritation at the man's constant interruptions, stunning and confusing Alistair further with his strange behavior.

"Do you know who removed the documents then?"

"Yes, 'twas my mother in fact."

"I see…could you bring us before her?"

A smile graces her features as she continues to stare at him, "ah, there is a sensible request. I like you." Moving away from the ruins, she beckons the gathered men to follow her, Alistair stepping in line next to the Nord. "I'd be careful. First, it's, "I like you..." but then "Zap!" Frog time." Besides them Daveth extends his fingers towards the Nord, mocking a spell and sniggering at Amon's supposed fate, however a sharp shove by the Redcliffe knight ends the jovial thief's play as Ser Jory moves forward, shaking his head and sighing at the mess they have been engrossed in.

A short distance from the former tower the group is escorted to a single hut, situated plainly in the middle of the marshlands completely unremarkable in appearance. Their approach is welcomed by a wizened women clothed simply in a plain brown tunic.

"Greetings, Mother. I bring before you four Grey Wardens who-"

"I see them, girl. Mmm, not at all what I expected."

A light scoffs and a roll of his eyes is Alistair's retort as he examines the strange old woman identified as the Chasnid witches' mother, "Are we supposed to believe you were expecting us?" he drolly mocks, clearly unimpressed at her claim.

"You are required to do nothing, least of all believe. Shut one's eyes tight or open one's arms wide...either way, one's a fool"

"She's a witch, I tell you! We shouldn't be talking to her!" Once again, the shaky voice of the normally jovial rouge interrupts the Chasnid Warden argument.

A sharp elbow and a stern look from the Knight silences the fears of his companion, eliciting a small smile from the elderly women before she sets her sights upon the armored Nord. However, once her eyes locked with his a cold feeling of dread paralyzed his breathing. This woman, if this thing was even human held malice almost as foul as the Daedra, suffocating his dread Amon hardens his gaze as the witch drew nearer. The air seemed to chill as she spoke, "And what of you? Are you as simply naive as these fools? Or perhaps you believe different?"

"I believe, I have no opinion."

A familiar predatory grin makes its way upon the old women's face as she continues to gaze into his eyes, the look dazes him almost as if to bewitch him, "So much about you is uncertain...and yet I believe. Do I? Why, it seems I do!" Her words are cryptic and confusing.

Alistair however is hardly interested in the obscure meaning behind the witches' words, "This is a dreaded Witch of the Wilds?"

"Witch of the Wilds, eh? Morrigan must have told you that. She fancies such tales, though she would never admit it! Oh, how she dances under the moon." A hollow laugh emanates from the witch as she glances back at her daughter, perhaps if the witch had less the aura of a Daedra Amon could be convinced that the pair simply were nothing more than a nomadic family. Such, however is not the fortunes of the lost king.

Morrigan, slightly embarrassed at the unembellished disclosure of her childish fancies; "They did not come to listen to your wild tales, mother."

"Mmm, True. They came for their treaties, yes? And before you begin barking, your precious seal wore off long ago. I have protected these."

Clearly not expecting such a statement the sardonic junior is almost at a loose for words, almost.

"You...oh, you protected them?"

"And why not? Take them to your Grey Wardens and tell them this Blight's threat is greater than they realize! Oh do not mind me; you have what you came for."

"Indeed, time for you to go then."

"Do not be ridiculous, girl. They are your guests." Chastises the elder witch with a click of her tongue.

Clearly unhappy with the errand Morrigan relents with a huff, "Oh, very well. I will show you out of the woods. Follow me."

Setting off into the marsh the young witch sets a brisk pace; followed close behind by four men who refuse to spare the strange old woman another glance. Though unnerved by the strange old woman they dare not speak their minds for fear of her arcane abilities, Amon however holds not such fear and speaks his mind to the junior Warden at his side.

"That, Thing, is not to be trusted Alistair. The sooner we are finished with this contest and away from the cursed land, the better." Before the bewildered Alistair can inquire as to the meaning of the strange man's words, the Nordic King increases his pace to fall in line next to the Witch's daughter.

'_He warns me of the old woman but sets upon her daughter's heels like a pup.'_

* * *

The trek through the marshes was painfully dull when brought in comparison to the earlier melee against the cursed spawn, the endless walking reminded Amon too much of his return to his homeland during the Dragon Crisis. Infinite walking to complete any number of inane quests for fools who refused to do it for themselves and ordained a heavily armed stranger to do it for them. By Talos how he prayed that the people of this land were more, proactive than his countryman.

The memories of his past years sufficed to distract the Nord from the dull trek, and before he knew it the voice of the golden-eyed witch alerted him to their arrival, "It seems this is the end of the trip gentlemen, as much as it was a pleasure to meet you. I suggest you do not return."

"We are gracious for your assistance in our endeavor milady, if there is anything I can do in return; do not hesitate to request it." Replies the Nordic King as he dips his head once more in gratitude to the marsh witch.

"Tis not I you should be indebted to, tis my mother though I suspect she would ask for nothing." She dismisses with a nonchalant wave before turning on her heel and marching back towards the forest, "Fare-thee-well Grey Wardens."

Amon watches her receding form until it vanishes in the densely packed woods, marching towards the gate he cannot retain the sneer that wells upon his face as the thief once again mocks him, fingers outstretched as if to cast a spell reminding him of Alistair's previous words. History repeats itself as the Knight harshly shoves him towards the camp, reigning the thief's mocking and urging them out of the cursed swamps.

No more words are spoken as they pass through the massive wooden gate and back towards the still burning bonfire, Duncan's form clearly visible against the flicking orange flames. Duncan's familiar paternal smile widens at the sight of the approaching group, nodding towards Alistair, the Warden directs his attention to Amon, "Ah, so you return from the Wilds. Have you met with success?"

"We have old man, not that it was much of a challenge. These spawn fight like _kinderen_, unworthy to meet my steel."

"Ha ha, were they now? It is good you return when you did. I've had the Circle mages preparing. With the blood you've retrieved, we can begin the Joining immediately."

"Then let us get this belabored tryst over and done with."

"Excellent. You will need that fire for what comes next."

The confused and slightly nervous voice of the thief interrupts Amon's biting remark, "Courage? How much danger are we in?"

Sighing deeply the senior Warden turns his back on the group and stares deeply into the roaring bonfire, "I will not lie, we Grey Wardens pay a heavy price to become what we are. Fate may decree that you pay your price now rather than later."

A hoarse snort causes Duncan to turn back around, meet with the unimpressed glare of the Nord as he palms the hilt of his demonic sword, "I have faced much worse threats in my life then the mindless horde that presents itself upon your borders. Stop delaying and let us end this, I begin to tire of all this interminable prattle."

Nodding his head in agreement the Redcliffe Knight steps forward, "I agree. Let us have it done."

The sadness vanishes from Duncan's face as it is replaced with his familiar smile, "Then let us begin. Alistair take them to the old temple whilst I prepare." Receiving his orders Alistair directs the group towards the spot where Amon had fetched him.

Passing by the kennel Amon remembers the flower tucked neatly in his pouch, waving the group off he confronts the master.

"Ah, greetings- Are you one of the Grey Wardens that went into the Wilds? Did you happen to see any white flowers?"

"I am and I had."

"Wonderful, I don't know for sure that the flower will aid my poor hounds, but it is worth trying. I have...let's see...twenty silver to offer as a reward for it?"

A puzzling offer, silver? Who would trade twenty silver ingots for such a mundane task, customarily in Skyrim a handful of septims was more appropriate, then again in this strange land who knew what the currency could be. At least it was not in livestock.

"An equitable trade, I suppose."

"Glorious, perhaps we won't lose as many hounds as I had feared."

Exchanging the plant for a pouch of coins Amon moved to join the group, however as he started to pass

the kennel master beckoned for him to return.

"I hate to ask for your help again, but could you possibly assist me in administering the salve? It is terribly difficult to do so alone."

"Very well, but I have not long to dally."

"Of course Ser, this way."

Entering the pen, the master directs him towards one of the hounds in the corner, whimpering softly it rests its head upon its paws. As soon as the two approach it, however it leaps to its feet, albeit shakily, growling at the unfamiliar human intruding upon its territory. Bearing its fangs at Amon, ready in an instant to tear the flesh from his throat.

Locking eyes with the wounded beast, he rests his hand upon the hilt of his blade and growls back, "Down. Now."

The contest continued for a moment longer before the hound's tongue lolled from behind its fangs and it dropped down, its short stubby tail wagging slightly. Eschewing caution, he kneeled next to the beast and rested his hand upon its head, giving the hound a light scratch behind its ear much to the Mabari's pleasure. Holding the mixed concoction in his hand he allows the hound to lap it up hungrily, as if it were not medicinal but rather a treat of mixed meat. Devouring the mixture quickly the hound nuzzles against the continued affection, whining forlornly once the pleasing action relented.

Completely flabbergasted at the unexpected event that just unfolded before him the kennel master could only stand with mouth agape as the armored Warden rose, "You-How did you do that? Mabari generally only abide to those who they are imprinted with."

The smirk that appeared on the Warden's lips was almost bestial like, reminding the kennel master of a wolf.

"Let's just say, I have much in common with the beasts of the wildlands. I must be off however; you can appease the remaining on your own." Quickly making his way out of the pen and towards the meeting unaware of the dark eyes of the Mabari watching his movements, completely ignorant of the implications of his actions.

His arrival is greeted by a nervous stride as Ser Jory wears a trail into the weathered temple stone, "The more I hear about this Joining, the less I like it."

"Are you blubbering again?"

Halting his pacing Jory regards the irritated rogue with a displeased look, "Why all these damned tests? Have I not earned my place?"

"Maybe its tradition or maybe, they're just trying to annoy you."

Stepping beside Daveth, Amon laces his arms across his breastplate, "Enough of your ceaseless blubbering."

A stern look from the knight is matched by the Nord, "You may have no reason to fear, but I have a wife in Highever expecting a child. If they had warned me…" trailing off Jory palms his forehead attempting to calm himself.

"It just doesn't seem fair."

Shrugging his shoulder Daveth fidgets with his armor, "Would you have come if they'd warned you? Maybe that's why they don't. Warden do what they must to protect us from the Blights, right?"

"Including sacrificing us?"

Daveth's fidgeting ceases as he closes the gap between him and the Redcliffe Knight, all traces of his former jovial personality gone, "I'd sacrifice a lot more if I knew it would end the Blight." Placing his hand upon Jory's shoulder, he attempts to reassure his apprehensive comrade.

"You saw those darkspawn, ser knight. Wouldn't you die to protect your pretty wife from them?"

"I..."

"Maybe you'll die. Maybe we'll all die. If nobody stops the darkspawn, we'll die for sure."

"I've…just never faced a foe I couldn't engage with my blade."

Echoing boot steps in the now eerily quiet temple resonate loudly, forcing those unsure to steel themselves for what awaited them next.

"At last we come to the Joining. The Grey Wardens were founded during the first Blight, when humanity stood on the verge of annihilation." Stopping at the stone table the senior Warden lays a simple silver chalice upon it, its polished surface only marred by the murky liquid sloshing within.

"So it was the first Grey Wardens drank of the darkspawn blood and mastered their taint."

"We're...going to drink the blood of those...those creatures?" Stepping back from Duncan, Jory looks towards each of the assembled men for an answer, though none other than the man before him could answer.

"As the first Grey Wardens did before us, as we did before you. **This** is the source of our power and our victory."

Stepping up Alistair rests his hand upon Jory's arm, providing little comfort to the confused man, "Those who survive the Joining become immune to the taint. We can sense it in the darkspawn and use it to slay the Archdemon."

Amon, still processing this new information perks up at the mention of an, Archdemon. _'What have you not been telling me old man. Archdemon?'_

Lifting the chalice from the table Duncan holds it outstretched, "We speak only a few words prior to the Joining, but these words have been said since the first. Alistair, if you would?"

Nodding Alistair rests his hand upon the chalice and closes his eyes, drawing the words from memory. "Join us, brothers, and sister. Join us in the shadows where we stand, vigilant. Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be forsworn. And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten and that one day we shall join you." Removing his hand from the chalice Alistair steps back allowing Duncan to stand before Daveth.

"Daveth, step forward."

Accepting the chalice the young rouge drinks heavily from its contents with a grimace, satisfied Duncan relinquishes it from his grasp.

At first, nothing seemed amiss, that soon changed however as the young man grunts in pain his posture swaying, gripping his head in both hands he cries out in anguish as an unknown force courses through his body. Daveth's head rockets up eyes wide and blank, his mouth open in a silent scream, hands gripping his throat before collapsing to the ground a thin stream of blood flowing steadily from his eyes.

"By the Nine…" Amon mutters in horror.

Watching in horror Jory backpedals away from the scene, muttering horrified at the ordeal the thief endures. Beside him, Amon too watches stunned by the turn of events, Daveth the group's jubilant rouge now lay dead upon the temple floor, taken as if by a potent poison. Why would the old man assist him if he only wished to poison them? This was something Amon would have answered, even if he had to force them from the old man.

Lowering his head in reverence, "I am sorry, Daveth." Pain thick in his voice as he prays to the Maker to guide his soul.

Turning he extends the chalice to the knight, "Step forth, Jory."

Shaking his head furiously the sword on his back suddenly appears in his hand, to fight off the advancing Warden if need be. "But...I have a wife. A child! Had I known..."

Handing the chalice to Alistair the senior Warden draws a curved dagger from his belt, "There is no turning back."

"No! You ask too much! There is no glory in this!"

Amon could hardly believe what was happening, this is not what he had agreed to, gripping his sword he stepped forward to intercede however Alistair's stern grip holds him back.

"What are you doing boy!? Do you honestly allow this to continue?"

The clash of iron and a familiar squelch signal the end to the struggles of the Redcliffe Knight. "I am sorry Jory…"

"You hardly seemed sorry to impale him upon your blade old man."

"The Joining is not yet complete; you were called upon to submit yourself to the taint for the greater good. "

Jory's body collapses to the stone with a clank of his armor, a pool of crimson fluid soaking the dull grey stone. Duncan sheathes the stained blade back upon his belt and steps towards the confused Nord, eyes half-lidded in sorrow.

"I never agreed to submit to my death old man."

"If a few must perish to allow the greater to survive, then so be it Amon. We all have a destiny to fulfill. Step forth, Amon Thorer of Ralfalk and accept your destiny."

"My destiny has been fulfilled a thousand times over old man, it was not in the stars to perish drinking the blood of the corrupted."

Nothing could convince the Nordic King to submit to something so senseless, nothing at all. Then, a feeling washed over him. Cold like the mountains of Skyrim but warm and inviting like the bosom of mother, it calmed the weary King, clouding his thoughts and urging him forward to a strange calling.

Duncan was confused, it seemed as if the strange warrior would not relent, how he had no desire to kill another to protect the Warden's secret. Then a strange occurrence, the warrior's fierce glare, and tensed muscles seemed to dull almost as if inebriated. Eyes half lidded and gaze dull, body swaying unsurely reaching out slowly Amon grasped the chalice and downed the mixture quickly, in an instant Duncan and Alistair watched as the potent drink took effect. A scene the elder man witnessed many times before, the armored man's hands swiftly clutch his head, swaying momentarily before steadying himself; blank eyes rocket up and lock with his own before he collapses forward in a commotion.

Hurriedly kneeling next to the warrior Duncan places his ear above Amon's lips, waiting hopefully for a sign that the taint had not taken another. Moments seem to drag on as if in an eternity before a ragged exhale erupts from his lips.

Beside his Alistair waits curious and hopeful, "Duncan is he…?"

Returning to his feet the familiar paternal smile wrinkles the Warden's face, "He yet lives Alistair, I suspected that his constitution could withstand the taint."

* * *

The air seemed…dead, empty. The strange and disturbing sight that greeted Amon was not what he wished he had awoken to. Endless horizon of islands and chasms, the sky not a peerless midnight nor a gleaming azure, all that greeted him was a pale sickly green and white. One thing did draw his gaze, a city forever in the distance and forever out of his grasp, blacker than the moonless nights.

Then without warning another dreaded feeling washes over him, an evil, a malice he had not since felt since the rise of the World Eater. Alduin…It could not be him.

Consuming his sight, the form of his trusted allies and his destined enemy. A dragon, but this dragon was nothing like any Amon had encountered in Skyrim. Its purple scales, festering and rancid seem to cling to the creature if only to mock a mortal form. Eyes empty and soulless sear a taint into his soul.

The last thing Amon hears before the world around him shatters into blackness are the foul yet enticing words of Dov reverberating throughout his entire being.

"_Alok, dir volaan ahrk dukaan, Dovahkiin!"_

* * *

**Roska**** – Finnish – trash**

**Kinderen ****– Dutch - Children**

**Alok, dir volaan ahrk dukaan, Dovakiin! **** - Dragon Language - Arise, die quickly and in vain, Dragonborn!**

**The Archdemon has a new friend in his (her?) wonderful extended family! The Born Hunter of Dragonkind! I wonder how many hugs Amon will get!~**

**The battle before the keep was what really stalled me; I had the whole thing planned in my head but as soon as I attempted to type it out my brain turned to slush. Probably a Thalmor conspiracy, you know how sneaky and evil those Elves can be…**

**The original working title for this story was; Calling of the Dragon Grey Warden, it was a play on both Amon's calling as a Warden and the Warden's calling, going into the Deep Roads to die but since the known Dragon Language is so sparse, I had to settle for the current title, Fate of the Dragon Grey Guardian. Oh well, what'cha gunna do?**

**Until the next episode of Dragon Ball Z- I mean this story…**


	3. Betrayals and Awakenings

**New chapter, late because it was. **

**Q**

**Abaddon953****: I understand what you mean but my reason for not using most is that they don't flow, if there was say a whole suit of Daedric armor then sure, so long as it also looked cool. Most of the Daedric artifacts are powerful but I never used them in my game barring a few times for giggles, if Skyrim had something like the Goldbrand from Morrowind/Oblivion than maybe. He does have the Ring of Hircine for a specific reason however, as for the Ebony Mail. Did I ever say it wasn't it? I said he had Ebony plate but I never specifically said whether it was the normal kind or Boethiah's. Amon looted every magical item he could but you can't expect him to carry around every single piece of equipment he came across now can you?**

**Z:**** How could Amon pull the arrows from his back? His arm was numbed by the poison and ripping something lodged in your skin out without the proper medical treatment would do more harm than good. You are correct about the potions, any he had he already consumed and the spell; he didn't have a chance to cast a spell he was in battle constantly and by the time Duncan found him his mind was muddled by the poison so he couldn't focus enough to cast the spell no matter how basic it was.**

**Mecaldar****: Knowing Sheogorath he would've probably made it a lot worse with his, "blessing"**

**He Who See's****: Thanks for pointing that out, can't catch all the mistakes. However I would like to say that I am merely human and I can't catch every little mistake, this is just something I do for fun. And yes, Amon doesn't hate Elves in general, just the Thalmor and the Dominion. **

**JakMartheDarkWarrior****: Yes he is a werewolf and yes he does get the Mabari. He will use his Thu'um soon enough and after he reveals it, more frequently. Armor enchantments? Well, the shield has a magic resistance, and…I didn't really think of ones for the rest of his armor. Most of the enchantments in-game are stat based and aren't exactly practical in real world applications. He is sneering because he is tired and frustrated, he's been fighting for days and now is being asked to fight more, given the chance to rest and collect his thoughts and he won't be as moody. **

**Guest****: I hadn't planned on the Dragonborn forging any new armor, whether or not Wade creates any hasn't been planned out yet. He may or may not.**

**ultima-owner:**** But…Hugs! No one ever wants to hug him, he's lonely! **

**Zerixa:**** Yeah….the problem with using google, it's shit. I'll fix that one of these days. **

**Fallen-Ryu:**** Where was it stated that Dragonborns are anything like Wardens? Grey Wardens are beings that ingest the taint but because of the mixture can withstand it and draw upon it's power instead of being turned into ghouls. Dragonborns are mortals with the blood and souls of dragons. The Archdemon isn't a dragon, it just mocks the shape of a dragon. And were was it stated that Dragonborns have extended livespans? They have the souls of dragons but the bodies of mortals. **

**Bradley McCloud:**** The Dawnbreaker was one of the three weapons that I was going to use before I settled on the Daedric longsword. It should be obvious where the Werewolf aspect comes into play.**

**A final word, to all those inquiring about the immunity to disease that the Werewolf blood imbues in Skyrim. You are thinking that the Taint is a simple disease that can be warded off so easily, it's not. If it were then it wouldn't be such a horrible affliction. Not only that, it's a plot device guys, even if Beth and Bioware came out and stated such it would still be ignored for the sake of plot. It protects Amon from all normal diseases and afflictions but the Taint is not normal and such has an effect on him, the long term affects are yet to be seen. **

**To everyone else not mentioned, thanks for the reviews and continue to point out any mistakes you see. **

* * *

**Chapter 3. Betrayals and Awakenings  
**

* * *

The first thing that Amon saw as his vision cleared were the faces of Duncan and Alistair, dangerously too close to his own. Though his body felt as if molten iron coursed through his veins, he still had the strength to swat away the Warden's hand and force his weary body off the cold stone floor.

"It is finished. From this moment on, you are now a Grey Warden."

As Duncan checked on the drained Nord, Alistair gazed morosely at the corpses of the two fallen recruits silently praying to the Maker to guide their souls to his side. "Two more deaths. In my Joining, only one of us died, but it was...horrible. I'm glad at least one of you made it through."

"How do you feel?" Duncan questions, seeing the new Warden finally regaining his bearings and focusing directly on the senior Warden. The snarl that crosses the Nord's lips confused him.

"How do I feel? I feel as if I battled Tsun himself with nothing but my hands. That's how I bloody feel!" A hand shoots forward roughly gripping the collar of Duncan's armor, lifting him slightly off the ground growling ferociously. A single wild grey eye boring into Duncan's hazel, confusion, and hatred exuding from it.

"By the bones of Shor himself, what the hell did make me ingest old man!?"

"I do not understand Amon; you drank of your own will. We did not force you."

The snarl and growl only deepen at the older man's words, clearly skeptical, glaring into his eyes further the Nordic King sensed no deceit from him, without another word drops the Warden stalking away. Armored fist slamming into the stone table, venting the frustration upon the smooth stone that he could not upon the aged Warden. Off to the side, Alistair hand removes itself from the hilt of his sword once the enraged warrior had let Duncan go. He was becoming increasingly wary of the man's erratic behavior and feared for his mentor's safety; Duncan however held no fear of the man, which made Alistair wonder what his father figure knew about Amon that neither had shared.

"The pain…and the visions, By the Nine what was that beast mocking the shape of a Dovah?" whirling around from the table Amon fixed a stern look towards the elder Warden as his cohort Alistair inched closer.

"Dovah? What are you talking about?"

Stomping towards the confused junior Warden, Amon emphasizes their height difference, glowering down at him a snarl planted firmly across his maw; "The Dov! Dragons, this creature held malice I have not felt since I battled the First-Born of Akatosh! What the hell swam within the liquid you forced down my gullet?! To feel such evil again, it was almost too much to bear."

To say that both of the Wardens were confused would be a dire understatement; Dov? Akatosh? What was their newest recruit talking about? It finally struck Duncan, Dragons…

It could not be.

"Amon, you spoke of a dragon, what did you mean?"

Snarling once more Amon whirled to face the elder Warden, "A dragon you senile old fool! A foul mockery fused together in molting scales of blood wine. Searing vile words into my mind, attempting to seduce me towards a foul end."

A flurry of thoughts occupied Duncan's mind, if what the large Warden proclaimed was correct, than this contest was futile. Even the mighty armies of the King could not stand against the horde led by the accursed one.

"Ser Duncan? The King and his counsels are expecting the Wardens arrival at the war map to discuss the upcoming battle."

A young male, clad in simple leather armor stood rigid hand glued to his forehead in a crisp salute; a trained eye could see his form shaking slightly. Whether from fear of the fabled order, or nervousness of the oncoming horde, it did not matter. Thanking the young soldier for his message, he waves the man off before turning his gaze back towards the still irate Nord. Duncan was at a loss, clearly, there was more to Amon than he knew, but there was no reason to doubt his words. Surely he should warn the King, but to what end. If the Arch-Demon truly had awakened then Ferelden was lost. Reinforcements from Orlais could do little to bolster their line and Wardens from the outlying fortresses would reach the border to find nothing but desolation.

It suddenly occurred to him, glancing back at the Nord, why had such a raw recruit seen visions of the Arch-Demon when no other Warden had. It confused him, if the beast truly did lead the horde why did it choose to reveal itself to Amon. Did the Maker have a plan for this young man, or was it simple chance.

"Cease your stares old man; your eyes begin to draw my ire."

"Duncan, is something the matter?"

Amon and Alistair's voices break the older Warden from his thoughts, whatever the reason for the apparition that appeared to the Nordic warrior Duncan had to consult with the King before taking the action of alerting the Order. Shaking his head gently his trademark paternal smile covered the perturbed frown that marred his features, placing his hand on Alistair's shoulder he reassured the Templar and directed him to the Kings council room, consisting plainly of the open ruins across from their meeting place.

Concerns of leaving his mentor with the erratic Warden still plagued him even as he marched towards the King, he trusted Duncan to take care of himself. He did not however, trust Amon.

A growl catches Duncan's ears as he watched Alistair depart, Amon no wonder curious as to why the elder Warden silently beckoned him to remain. Turning on his heel, he finds the new Warden leaning against the smooth table; arms laced low on his chest, a hand twitching subtly towards his sheathed blade. If it was at another moment Duncan would be amused at the man's paranoia, but it was no longer time for jokes and fun.

"Amon Thorer of Ralfak. Who are you?"

Narrowing brows, deepening frown, tensing of his facial muscles and those under his armor. Clearly, this was not a question the man wished to answer. This was no longer something that could remain untold however, Duncan needed to know his secrets if he would allow him to remain, too many variables, and unexplained occurrences.

"I am, who you need me to be."

So, he desired to remain cryptic tragic. With a deliberate languid draw the longsword upon his back slide from the leather strap that held it, the sword hung from his hand at his side tip lazing against the stone floor. "This is not a game Amon Thorer, more hangs precariously on the brink of ruin than you can imagine. I need you to be honest and answer my inquiries without deception."

Pushing off from the table the Nord's own sword appeared in his hand in a flash, however unlike Duncan's, his was held aloft. The ebony and crimson blade poised to spear his chest, a defiant but hardened look matching Duncan's.

"Do not speak to me of tragedy Warden-Commander Duncan, in my short time upon the mortal plan I have faced adversities that you could never hope to fathom. I have faced creatures breathed as legends, walked in the realms of gods and demons, battled both and emerged scarred and broken. Yet still, I was asked for more. And more, I gave. I have given everything I hold dear and still it was not enough."

The demonic blade inched closer, until the tip rested dangerously on Duncan's armor hovering directly over his heart, but still he did not waver in his gaze.

"Here, now, I am asked once again. To forsake everything I treasure to wage your war against these darkspawn. Enlighten me old man, as to why I should not end you and find my own way home?"

"Because Amon, whether by Divine intervention or deception, you are now tied to this world. Your blood is interwoven with these spawn. It is now you duty to eradicate them, by whatever means necessary."

"I am only now tied to this world because you forced the foul drink upon me; you gave me no other choice. Fate of death at mortal hand or face uncertainty of venom. Tell me, oh glorious Commander, why I should not simply slay you now, and carve a swarth through the fool King's army?"

For a fleeting moment Duncan worried, he had chosen poorly, for all of his skill, Amon Thorer seemed nothing more than a brutish killer one who relished in nothing more than death and blood. Behind the façade of barbarism, however he could see the keen intelligence of a learned warrior one who relished in battle but did not drown in it. A hint of a mischievous smirk shone through his hardened features, Amon may have experience, but he was still a pup.

"How will you find you way home in this foreign land of ours, with no one to guide you? Besieged not only by the spawn who will hunt you but also by the armies of man who seek vengeance for your slaughter. Think carefully Amon Thorer of Ralfalk; let not the inscrutability of youth guide your hand this night. "

The familiar snarl reaches Duncan's ears; he almost failed to hold back a victorious smile, once the strange blade left his armor he allowed it to come forth. Sheathing the blade with swift precision Amon restrained the growing desire to level his fist against that smug bearded face, how he hated mind-games particularly when he was bested in them. He was sorely beginning to remind him of Arngeir; Old, talkative and deceptively cunning in the ways of persuasion, how he hated them both.

"You wish to know old man, than I shall indulge in your question. Who am I? I will tell you but know this, one final sacrifice this night. Once this horde is routed I will have my demands fulfilled and be free of this."

Without waiting for Duncan's answer he set off on his tale, too long to explain everything he had experienced since his homecoming but enough to sate the Warden's insatiable curiosity.

As the Nord explained, Duncan was astonished at his tale. Dragons, Gods, Demons- No Daedra he called them. All seemed so, fantastical and yet what he mentioned next, astonished him the most.

"Dragonborn…"

"Yes, a mortal form enclosed around the blood and soul of the Dov. Destined to foil the plan of the World Eater and lead the land in revolt once again against his minions. Perhaps since your, Arch-Demon, mocks their form, it could sense my soul as kindred. It however, did not seem to accept me so readily."

A thousand questions pounded at his mind but Duncan could not voice them, for King Cailan's excited voice reached their ears. Across the way, clad in gleaming golden armor he waved, garnering the Wardens attention.

A snort from the Dragonborn as he walked past, towards the King and his council. "Once this contest is finished we can continue our interrogation, but for now let us join your King before he leaps from his lavish armor."

Nodding still in deep thought Duncan accompanies him, still reeling from the minute knowledge thrust before him. The injured warrior he found battling blindly against the Darkspawn was a fabled warrior with the soul of dragon battling an ancient god of destruction. If his tale was to be accepted then it was more than he could have hoped for, persuaded to aid their fight surely even the Arch-Demon could not stand firmly against a dragon reborn as a man. Perhaps he put too much faith in a stranger's tale, in times of desperation however; any straw of hope should be grasped for.

The walk, though short in distance felt like an eternity. Tension thicker than cowhide developed between the two Wardens, Duncan was thankful for it precious more time to process all, he had been told. It was shorter than he had hoped however as the King familiar tone breaching his distraction.

"Loghain, my decision is final. I will stand by the Grey Wardens in this assault"

Clad in heavy muted grey armor a second man stood, a frown permanently marring his features as he struggled to make the King see reason. At the opposite end stood Alistair and two robed figures, both clearly displeased with each other and Alistair caught between them.

"You risk too much, Cailan! The darkspawn horde is too dangerous for you to be playing hero on the front lines."

Loghain's mood only sours further at the playful tone the King takes on, Cailan was no Maric Theirin, but despite the young King's fantastical view on the battle, Loghain would support him, even if it meant playing along with his foolish battle plans. The next words out Cailan's mouth however, enraged him to the core.

"If that's the case, perhaps we should wait for the Orlesian forces to join us, after all."

Orlesians!? How dare this man even fathom bringing the scum back into the land he and Maric fought so greedily to free from their wretched control. "I must repeat my protest to your foul notion that we need the Orlesians to defend ourselves!"

Cleary displeased with his subordinate's ire the playful tone disappears from the young king's voice, "It's not a "fool notion." Our arguments with the Orlesians are a thing of the past...and you will remember who is king."

"How fortunate Maric did not live to see his son ready to hand Ferelden over to those who enslaved us for a century!" He had to restrain his fury, soon it would all come to pass, and the land would be under proper rule.

"Then our current forces will have to suffice, won't they?" Turning his gaze from his irate second the cheerful King persona remerges as he speaks to his trusted friend.

"Duncan, are your men ready for battle?"

"They are, your Majesty."

A broad smile as he turned towards Amon, inspecting the Nord from head to toe. "And you must be the warrior I met from before; glad to see you recovered fully from your wounds."

"I thank you for your concern your Majesty."

"Every Grey Warden is needed now. You should be honored to join their ranks." Biting back a remark, he is saved by Loghain's own scathing barb.

"Your fascination with glory and legend will be your undoing, Cailan. We must attend to reality not the idle tales of griffons and monsters."

Exasperated groan and a roll of eyes, Cailan beckons his second to continue it was no fun planning a battle when Loghain insisted on being so stale.

"Fine. Speak you strategy. The Grey Wardens and I draw the darkspawn into charging our lines and then...?"

Leaning over the map covering most of the long wooden table Loghain jabs an armored finger towards a spot off the center of the map, "you will alert the tower to light the beacon, signaling my men to charge from cover, where we will flank them and crush their lines."

"The Tower of Ishal in the ruins, yes? Who will light this beacon?"

"A have a few men stationed there, it is not a dangerous task but a vital one."

Both pushing away from the table nodding to each other before King Cailan directs his attention to the two younger Wardens, "Then we should send our best. Send Alistair and Amon to make sure it's done."

Incensed at the prospect of being nothing more than a torch bearer Amon rose to challenge the King's decision, Duncan's hand and Loghain's own protest hold his tongue and subdue his rage.

"You rely on these Grey Warden's too much. Is that truly wise?"

The young king's annoyance was becoming clearly visible as harshly swiped his hand, halting further protest by his second. "Enough of your conspiracy theories, Loghain. Grey Wardens battle the Blight, no matter where they're from."

That word, Blight, caused Duncan to flinch. It seemed this was a good a time as any to reveal his newfound knowledge; he was worried how this would affect the King and the armies moral. Few men could stand fast knowing that their battle was futile.

"Your Majesty, you should not discount the Arch-Demon's appearance I fear it may be more likely than we originally feared."

"There have been no signs of any dragons in the Wilds." A simple statement but it held more ignorance than he could have possibly known.

Smile never faltering Cailan simply shrugged, "Is that not what you and your men are here for Duncan?"

"I…Yes your Majesty." Duncan tuned out the protest by the Circle and Chantry representative, how could Cailan be so naïve. Just because the dragon made no appearance on the front did not denote its presence. A single Warden's did not always guarantee victory against the wraith of the ancient evil, thousands of his brothers had fallen in the Blights with similar foolish bravado. Beside him, Duncan spotted Amon's lips curl in disgust, perhaps the Nord's thoughts ran parallel to his own. Staring briefly more at the man a glimmer of hope came to his mind, Amon had claimed that the Dragonborn was the ultimate dragon slayer. Just maybe, maybe they had a chance against the Arch-Demon after all.

Duncan's mind returned to reality just in time to here the cryptic departing words of Cailan's second, what had the man meant? Could he possibly be planning to usurp the throne after the battle? It pained Duncan to think of that as a possibility, if that was truly, what Loghain had planned then he could do nothing to stop it. The Wardens had once before attempted to intercede in politics and had caused them to be expulsed from Ferelden for two hundred years.

* * *

Gathered together around the bonfire Duncan explained the mission that had been assigned to the two younger Wardens, though both highly displeased at not participating in the battle, Amon more so than Alistair. He had assured them of the importance of their mission and promised that if the dragon did emerge they could assist, until then they would remain in the tower.

"Then I must join the others. From here, you two are on your own. Remember, you are both Grey Wardens. I expect you to be worth of that title."

"Worry not of our worth old man, pray that you do not chance upon the Dovah." A cruel sneer marks Amon's face before it is obscured by his black helm; it seemed the prospect of the dragon devouring him amused the Nord.

"Let us all pray that the Arch-Demon remains hidden; even against someone of your unique repertoire I do not doubt it could devour you whole."

A short barking laugh and Amon struts out of the light, the pitch-black night ensnaring his midnight armor; "Do not think you know my true skill old man, I am more than I appear."

"Indeed you are, Warden Thorer."

Though confused by their obscure words Alistair focuses back upon his task, "Duncan….May the Maker watch over you."

"May he watch over all of us, even those who do not wish his protection."

* * *

They were more than halfway over the bridge before the sounds of battle reached them and the first barrage of stone artillery shattered against the gorge. Barely a moment to process the new sounds before a wail of agony and fear captures their gaze, three men fleeing from the tower as a horde of spawn chased after. Before they could intervene, a bolt lashes forward and catches one by the neck. Turning to engage the spawn, they are joined by the two Wardens who, with their help make short work of the spawn.

"M-maker help us! They're everywhere! You! You're Grey Wardens, aren't you?! The tower...It's been taken!

"What are you talking about, man? Taken how?"

"The darkspawn came up through the lower chambers! They're everywhere! Most of our men are dead!"

"Good, I would tire of nothing more than babysitting a flame."

"G-good!? Move to your doom if you wish but I will not die needlessly!"

A hand armored in black plate lashes out and seizes the frightened footmen by the collar, dragging him helplessly back and towards the towering figure. Behind the elegant helmet, he could barely make out a single eye seemingly glowing, either in fury or battle lust he did not hope to find out.

"A true man does not flee at the prospect of a hopeless battle; fight with all you can muster and cherish the thought of meeting your brothers in Sovengarde. Now fight or I will run you through myself."

The dragonborn stares into the soldier's eyes for a moment longer before roughly shoving him away, "Bah, I have no time to deal with this skeever bait. Flee if you wish but know you condemn your fellows to a fate worse than death."

Stalking away from the group, demonic blade clutched tightly in his hand he engages another Darkspawn while the battle-mage and his ally stare in disbelief. Alistair sighs and moves to follow his newest companion; "He is like that, if you have the courage then we could use all the assistance we can get."

"Y-yes Ser Warden!"

Moving to sever the distance between them the small group happens upon several slain and brutalized corpses of men and spawn alike. Clearly, the irate Nord had spared little time in dispatching their enemy and making his way towards the objective. At the door, the group arrives in to witness Amon finish off a Genlock with the bottom of his boot. Crushing the diminutive spawn into the stone walkway with an apathetic grunt, scraping black blood and putrid flesh from his boot Amon casually glances back upon hearing the commotion of armored feet.

Rushing up the stair his companion and his feeble escorts arrive out of breath and begging silently for a break as they stop in front of him. A scowl crosses his face blinded by the midnight helmet, was this truly what the lands army held? These men were no Nords that was painfully obvious; rapping the Daedric blade against his shield, he captures their attention.

"Seems you lot grew a backbone after all, good Shor does not abide cowards."

The wooden and iron door that enclosed the tower from the outside world crumpled under the force of his boot, worn wooden planks and rusted iron fittings explode upon impact. Trampled underneath as the quartet pass through the stained archway into a room littered with burning rubbish and bodies impaled upon jagged spiked barricades. Alistair had to choke back the bile growing in his throat, the darkspawn clearly held no mercy for the fallen gripping his blade tighter he steeled his resolve. He would give them no quarter as well, every spawn he saw would fall by his blade.

"Cease your dalliances we have a long trek ahead of us and little time to do it in." Slightly ahead of them Amon had made his way past the crisscrossed barricades and awaited them at the end. No spawn appeared to stop them in this room but he was assured that many would swarm to stop them once they opened the door.

* * *

A scream that echoes throughout the silent halls of the chapel, wrenched from her peaceful slumber the young woman clutches her simple blanket to her chest. Desperately begging her heart to cease its pounding, again, that dream plagued her and again it only further solidified her resolve. The Maker had plans for her and remaining in the chapel was not it.

_She was floating, floating amongst the clouds free as a bird and safe as if in her mother's embrace. Then a bright light, brighter than the sun and twice as warm within the light a figure that looked like a man, but it was unlike any man she had ever met. Tall as an old tree and just as wise, polished silver armor gleamed brightly, a short trimmed beard swaying in the gentle breeze. Kneeling before her, he extends his hand to her, apprehensive she glances at the hand before dragging her gaze up towards the towering figure's face. Mere moments after she gazed upon his face was she forced to avert, a flush covering her cheeks, it felt as if she was naught but a child and she was embarrassed. The figure sensing her fluster laughs lightly, his voice deep but lyrical, grasping her hand he pulls her upright, no longer was she floating carefree but now she stood on the air as if it was the earth. His giant hand engulfing her own only further cementing her feelings, who was this man that man her feel as if he was her father. _

"_Child," his deep voice breaking her musings forcing her to stare up at him the blinding light obscuring most of his features, "a great evil descends upon the land and alone man cannot hope to turn it's tide."_

_She opened her mouth to speak but found the words died upon her lips, the figure continued unabated, "but there is hope my child, a son of the north tainted by many evils has been beckoned to this land to free it. His journey is fraught with many dangers and without aid, he will surely fail."_

_Releasing her hand his form seems to move away, feebly she reaches out for his warmth again, feeling lost without his touch. _

"_Cast off your cloistered vows and take up arms to aid his journey fear him not, for despite the testament of Gods and Demon his old soul yet remains pure."_

_The light was fading, beginning to take on a foul color that sent shivers up her spine, she was confused and frightened, and finally she had the courage to speak allowing only one question to come to bear. "How will I know?"_

"_You will know in your heart."_

_Tendrils of shadow eclipsed the bright figure; a foreboding chill replaced the paternal warmth, off in the distance a shapeless mass clawed towards her. Beckoning her to allow it entry, she was fearful of this creature and wished only to be bathed once again in the man's warmth. The shadowy tendrils inched closer and closer, she could feel their foul energy radiating just as it was about to engulf her she screamed. Driving the formless evil back and severing the connection to the Fade and back into the waking world._

Leliana shivered involuntarily as she remembered the dream, the same one that plagued her for a fortnight, the same bright figure, and shapeless malice. Casting off the blanket, she winced as the frigid stone floor stung at her bare feet, easing herself down she made her way towards a simple bowl resting atop a stand. Cupping her hands she dipped them within the cool water, splashing the refreshing liquid against her skin, a soft sigh escapes her lips as she allows the liquid to sooth her. Allowing the water to linger upon her face a moment she briskly blots a small hand towel upon her face soaking up the errant droplets. Every night the same dream had beckoned her towards a new destiny and every day it was getting harder and harder to ignore, she was mocked by the other priests and told countless times that the Maker did not speak to a single person directly. How else could she explain what was clearly not a simple dream, if that man was not the Maker then who could it be? Who else could be so warm and caring? She had decided nights ago to listen to the dream and leave the Chapel, she would find this; "Child of the North, tainted by many evils" and do as the Maker commanded. She would use her bardic talents and fulfill her newfound trail.

* * *

The last of the spawn erupted in a blaze of orange, pale grey fleshed now seared and blackened by the intense explosion. Its howl of agony is silenced by an ebony and crimson blade separating its head from its shoulders, boiling black blood spurting onto the stained stone and the body collapses in a heap. Not giving it another glance an armored figure surges forward through a huge archway opening into a massive domed room, empty except for a lone fire pit nestled securely in the wall.

A trio of men follow swiftly after all covered in wounds and thoroughly winded, one rushing towards the pit; "This must be the signal fire, hurry we've most likely missed the signal!"

Frantically patting his waist, he is shocked to find he cannot locate his tinderbox; a loud curse interrupts the silence as he futilely continues to search for his lost starter. Besides him, the sole unarmored combatant raises his staff and unleashes a torrent of flame upon the kindling emblazing the damp wood in a fury of fire. Flashing the mage a grateful smile he clasps the mage on the shoulder, catching the man off guard forcing him to catch himself lest he stumble.

Their small victory is shattered by Amon's barking, "On guard!"

His warning comes too late as a volley of arrows riddles the unprepared men, the mage's simple robe providing no protection as five crocked bolts pierce his stomach and a final one finding its place in his eye. The footman fares no better as he too falls to the barrage his standard leather cuirass unable to impede the missiles.

Alistair cries out in pain as several of the bolts lodge in his back, the stifling pain overwhelming his senses, he was unconscious before his body crashed to the floor, a puddle of crimson fluid pooling underneath his armor.

Trained and astute eyes allowed Amon to escape the same fate, the volley intended to slay him ricocheted harmlessly off his ebony shield, glancing bad he spies his comrades felled by the ambush. A surge of anger floods him, he may not have known them for long, but no commander loved to see his men fall. Channeling that anger, he allows it to fester in his gullet for a brief moment before releasing it in a massive plum of fire, the ancient language of the dragons escaping his lips.

"_YOL TOOR SHUL!"_

Sensing the primal fury behind it and their encroaching death the feeble horde struggles to flee from the sweeping fire. Righteous fire envelopes their forms and leaves naught but ash in its wake bathing the room in a blinding orange, a pleased growl accompanies a wisp of smoke from his lips as he admires his handiwork. Blinded by both the light and fury Amon fails to notice the massive shadow at his side until a hand twice his size crashes into him, sending his armored form spiraling through the air and crashing onto the stone floor. The force of the strike hurtles his body across the stone, screeching horribly in response to the metal grinding against it.

His ears rung, his body throbbed in pain, it felt like a mammoth had sat atop him. The force of the blow had dislodged his helmet, his vision obscured by the plate and by the worming darkness. He was aware of another sound other than the howling giant that had assaulted him, another shadow veiling the light. It looked like a bird, a giant bird. Large claws rending the flesh from the giant and casting it aside like a plaything, then suddenly as soon as it had appear the shadow disappeared. The silhouette of a woman now claimed his rapidly fading vision; she was both familiar and foreign, a mocking laugh drowning the ringing in his ears.

"Well well, what have we here?"

* * *

A giant tower of flame now illuminating the dark structure, the signal they had been waiting for, the word needed to urge them to join the fight. The sounds of a losing battle echoing all around them. Standing ahead of the force stood a single man, he stared at the burning tower in apathy before speaking his order.

"Sound….the retreat."

At his side, a young woman stares at him confused, retreat? The signal was to alert them to surge into the valley and assist the king. "But...what about the king? Should we not—"

The hand she used to gesture towards the battle was seized by his hand, his stern eyes boring into her own. "Do as I command!"

Wrenching her hand from his grasp, she stares fleetingly at the battle before turning towards the troop, ordering them off. Though they all shared the confusion they obeyed without a word, marching away from the battle as their commander stares out, joining them soon after leaving the King and his men to die.

Duncan could watch in horror as the King's lifeless body was thrown near him, his once immaculate golden armor now stained brown with the horrible life fluid. Sorrow and anger courses through him as he leaps from the ground, ripping the blade from his back. Deftly leaping into the air twin blades driving into the exposed chest of the massive ogre. Several more times for good measure and the massive spawn crashed onto the ground, Duncan's twin blades lanced into its heart. Sliding from the beast he slumps morosely to his knees all around him the King's men being slaughtered, the signal ignored. Casting his gaze up he watches as a massive bird flies from the tower, somehow he knew that his two Wardens' were safe. Perhaps the sacrifice was not in vain, if Amon and Alistair could prevail than it would be worth facing his demise in the field.

As if summoned the armored visage of a spawn catches his gaze, a massive ornate axe dragging behind it charging towards him he knew his time was over. A silent prayer to the Maker to guide his young charges was the final thing Duncan experienced before the hurlock's axe ended his life.

* * *

**That's all for Chapter three, all and all I am not really pleased with this chapter. Until the next one.**


	4. Bindings and Unexpected Acquaintances

**Happy New Year all my readers! First off, i am not dead despite Mother Nature and my boss's desire for me to be. A combination of work, sickness, the holidays, new gaming computer and a general case of; "I'm a fucking lazy bastard." delayed this but here ya go, a present for the new year!**

**Q&A:**

**MistaSilentKiller:** The story will always carry on, either through my will or from the love you all give me- Oh it's canceled...Just kidding, so long as i am able, i will keep writing. When he transforms should be fairly obvious if you've played Origins, and it's not going to be this chapter. It could've been, but it won't.

**Ultima-owner:** Could be worse, could've chosen Amon's mortal enemy! Getting stuck in landscape glitches! DAMN YOU SKYRIM!

**Abaddon953:** Maybe i meant it that way to keep you in suspsense! Or maybe more likely i am an idiot and can't seem to remember what the hell i am doing. Let me clarify, when i first started writing this story it was going to be just plain Ebony Armor, then i thought about it and considered the Ebony Mail, then changed my mind again. Then decided to bugger all and just make it the Mail. Primarlly my concern is that the Mail lacks the pauldrons of the normal armor. So for the sake of settling this; Yes it is the Ebony mail, but it has the pauldrons. Armor is only as effective so long as it looks cool, right?

Wabbajack? Hmm, maybe. Sheogorath? I doubt it, but you never know what inspiration may hit me in the future. Mask of Hircine? Do you mean the Ring? Read and find out. The Skeleton Key will not since it is lost at the end of the questline, besides Amon has no need for it, he can pick most locks without trouble. In regards to DLC content, originally i owned Skyrim for the PS3 so i got shafted in regards to DLC and didn't play Dawnguard until after i had published two chapters. Perks, magic and anything else mystical can appear but anything physical like armor or weapons can't since it would mean Amon has access to his cache of equipment in Skyrim or somehow hid them on his person.

**JakMartheDarkWarrior:** Amon is capable of using most of the magic known in Skyrim, he may not be a master mage but he can cast them, if with difficulty. And yes his mystical ability will pique the Templar's curiousity.

**SilverRed:** It is not that i don't enjoy it, i do. It is just that at times i get stuck thinking of one word and it stalls me for days, and being stubborn as i am i cannot move past it without figuring it out so that genrally leads me to not finishing for a long time. If i didn't enjoy this, i wouldn't do it simple as that.

**Blinded in a bolthole:** I am well aware it is a term based primarly in the Free Marches but just as in reality, terms have a tendiciy to spread and be used by non-natives. More accurately, i didn't want to keep using Ser and such so i branched out.

**SyQadelic:** Skyrim will make an appearence later on. As for it's place, i haven't decided. Probably won't be a future/past thing.

**G-54:** ...Oh you~ I'm blushing...No wait, no i'm not! I'm a big strong toughie!

To everyone else, Thank you for the reviews and i hope you enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter 4: Bindings and Unexpected Acquaintances.**

* * *

"_Pa! You're back! Did you bring me anything?" a young boy appears within his vision, clad in a simple red shirt and blue pants. A bright smile splits his face as he stares up at the towering armored figure that is his adoptive father. A gauntleted hand lands atop his head and ruffles his short brown hair, now embarrassed by the affectionate touch the young boy shakes the hand off and pouts as a light dusting of red appears upon his cheeks. Whining at how his father treated him like a child elicits a deep hearty chuckle from the man as he reaches into his waist-pouch, withdrawing a small wooden figurine lovingly shaped in the likeness of a wolf. A present crafted by a fellow beastblood and presented to him as a gift for his son. Aela simply adored her Harbinger's cubs and sought to spoil them at every chance she had whether with treats or toys she always beckoned him to bring them some form of present. _

"_Here Samuel, another present from Aela. Careful with it my son, this boon is fragile as crystal and should be cared for as such." _

_Nodding excitedly the young boy's grin deepens as he evades another of his father's pats and disappears into his room, no doubt to find a place amongst his other toys to set his newest treasure. At his side, a timid voice and a small tug on his arm capture his attention there, seemingly appearing from the shadows is his second child; a petite young lass, clothed in a bright yellow dress and a cherubic face framed in thick strands of hair fair as straw. Their eyes meet and in an instant her sapphire eyes dart to the floor, face alight with a flush hands nervously toying the hem of her dress. Paternal love warming his heart a serene smiles deepens upon his lips, kneeling he plants a soft kiss against her forehead. The squeak of shock serving only to further his amusement, with deft fingers he frees her gift from his pouch and slides it over her hair. The glint of polished silver reflecting in the candlelight, marble sized gleaming sapphire fastened securely draws the eye, lovingly crafted by hand and polished like a mirror. This was his gift to his youngest and only daughter Lucia, smiling deeper as her tiny fingers tentatively prod the strange new addition to her head. _

_Leading her to a full-length mirror in the corner, he brushes errant strands of her sandy hued hair allowing her an unobscured glimpse of her new present. Her round eyes brighten and her mouth quivers into a broad grin as an ear-piercing squeal erupts, in response her father winces softly. The enhanced senses of the lycan were both a blessing and a hindrance, in this case quite the hindrance as his daughter's youthful exuberance grates upon his hearing. Strong but small arms wrap around his armored chest as Lucia attempts to crush her petite form against his, chuckling warmly once again he gently returns the embrace before pulling away and patting her on the head, as he had Samuel. _

"_My darling child, perhaps Rayya would delight in seeing you with your newest treasure?"_

_Nodding furiously she embraces her father once more before running off to show the Housecarl and Steward of his Lakeview Manor. Watching her retreating form with a chuckle, he begins the tedious task of removing his bulky armor, the ashen white plates scared and stained with the blood of many foes. Releasing the latch underneath his armor Amon grunts in pleasure as the confining plate slackens, allowing the air to cool his chafed skin, setting the heavy bone armor on nearby table he sets to work removing the second one. As soon as the offending plate was free of his arm he couldn't resist the urge to growl happily, the armor of the Dov gifted him with superior protection but it was far from being a pleasure to wear daily. Rubbing his calloused hands against his red and sweat stained arms he allows himself to drown in the simply pleasure before moves on to remove the remaining armor. _

_A simple process he had done a thousand times and yet, still one buckle on his armor always designed to fight his ministrations. Growling dangerously at the offending buckle as if it would succumb to his anger he is started by a small gentle hand upon his arm, pulling it from the buckle the owner giggles at his aggravation and sets upon the strap. Much to his annoyance it gives way swiftly and the bulky chest piece slides off allowing him to bask in the cool air, slender fingers lazily tracing the lines of scars upon his bare chest breaking him from the simple relish of the winter air. _

"_After all these years that single strap still torments you, perhaps you should consider something finer to equip in this filthy bone armor stead my Tha- Ahem, my love." _

_It seemed he was not the only one who struggled; many seasons after being wed, she still slipped and addressed him by his former title despite his many chastisements. Their marriage was held several months after Alduin's demise_ _attended by many of his friends and comrades, even an appearance by General Tullius, although he staunchly claimed it was merely for business. A content smile graces his face as he cups his love's cheek, soft supple skin draws closer to his hand as he closes his eyes and draws his wife closer to his chest. _

_Suddenly and strangely, the air around him became hotter; drawing a breath burned his lungs, the scent of smoke stinging his sensitive senses. His chest felt wet and sticky, as if someone had dripped honey upon his skin, another scent engulfed his acute wolfen nose, a smell that he knew well. Blood._

_Opening his eyes he is greeted to a ghastly site, blanketed beneath a shroud of black smoke is the smoldering wreckage of his manor, butchered livestock and devastated rubble tell the tale of a ruined land attacked by an unknown force. Strewn across the land are several bodies; a dark-skinned female, twin headless bodies of two fair skinned men. His housecarl Rayya, Gunjar his driver and his minstrel Llewellyn. _

_Several metres away lay the bodies of two small children and a hound, blood caked upon their prone forms and puddled beneath them staining the earth. Clenched tightly in the young boy's tiny hand, lay a simple wooden sword that he had carved for his son months before. Drawing in a shuddering breath he casts his gaze down to the figure drawn to his chest, the source of the gluey liquid coating his chest, chocolate colored hair caked with blood, vibrant forest green eyes now staring lifelessly into the sky, skin once pink and supple with warmth now pale and clammy. His wife, his family, his comrades slain violently and without restraint. _

_The sudden and unexpected change numbing his response, he could only stare helplessly at their bodies, tears refused to shed as he drew his wife's body to his chest. He vowed silently to himself and to the gods as a roar echoed throughout lands rivaling the rage of the Dov, that his vengeance would be unequal to those who dared to slay his family. He would show them why he was deemed Ysmir, the Dragon of the Northern Lands, he would personally slay every party responsible for this atrocity neither God nor Daedra would stand in his way in his quest for vengeance._

* * *

His eyes snapped open as the horrible dream left him, his forehead coated in a thin sheen of sweat; bolting upright he held his head in his hands willing the sickly feeling in his stomach and heart to be banished. That was the past, he could do nothing to change it now, and immersing himself in such sorrow would only plunge him deeper into depression. Off to the side he could hear the subtle shuffle of feet as a figure drew closer, illuminated by the roaring fire and candles dotting the room. Wrapped in cloth of deep purple and deeper black, thin lithe womanly frame, striking golden eyes of a predator; it was the swamp witch that had led them to the malevolent creature she called a mother.

"Ah, your eyes finally open. Mother shall be pleased."

"You are….the witch, Morrigan if I recall."

"You are correct. I have finished bandaging your wounds, and to answer you beforehand, you are back in the Wilds."

"I owe you a great debt then milady, not only for tending to me whilst I slumber but for my rescue."

"Was not I who saved you Warden, t'was my mother in fact. Does your memory fail you? You seemed quite competent before."

Subtly rolling his eyes at her barb he forces his aching body from the bed and onto his unsteady feet, the witch seems indifferent to his plight and his stark nudity, which he was unaware of until he removed the simple blanket. A bundle of clothes strikes him in the chest and lands in his open arms, the witch unfazed by his bare body eyes him for a moment before directing his attention to his piled gear. As he slipped the simple cloths on a memory of his mission returns, the battle, did it wage still or had the fool king claimed victory. If so, why was he here in the swamp and not in some field hospital?

"A question, if I may milady."

Quirking a delicate eyebrow up at his formal tone she waves it off, "Speak Warden, and cease such formality, Morrigan shall suffice."

Kneeling next to his gear, he spies his accessories bundled within his helm, necklace in the shape of a hammer and a ring of dark metal. The pendent of Talos, worn both in reverence to the hero-god and in defiant mockery of the Elven law, and the ring of dark steel adorned with wild markings and topped with a fearsome wolf head. The ring a gift from the prince of the hunt that helped to tame the beast blood within. Without it he could endure but even at his peak, it was almost unbearable to resist the call of the wild.

"As you wish, the battle, how does it fare?"

"The spawn emerged victorious, the man who was to respond to you signal quit the field. Those he abandoned were massacred. Your friend...he is not taking it well."

Friend? He had no comrades in this land, the only people he was acquainted with was the infuriating old man and his buffoonish ward. Since the spawn had claimed victory, it was infeasible that the senile fool was the target of her words that only left…

"Alistair? Bah, that fool is no more my friend than the spawn."

An eyebrow is raised when she lets out a chuckle at his words, wetting her lips she waves off his look before turning back towards a pot bubbling over the roaring fireplace. No more words were exchanged as he slipped the armor back upon his body; the black and navy mail rippled at his touch and clinging tightly to his flesh once strapped securely. Once all the pieces of his gear had been successfully returned to their proper place he tucked his ebony helm under arm. Noticing he had finished dressing Morrigan replaced the lid upon the pot turning on her heel, again her eyes lingered on his form a predatory grin appearing on her features.

"Finished are we? Good, Mother wished to speak to you once you had awoke. Perhaps you should also speak to your, "friend", he has veered between denial and grief since Mother told him of the outcome."Punctuating the comment of friend with her fingers, she directed him to the door, unconcerned with his questioning glance.

"Speak to me? Of what does she need to discuss with me?"

Lazily shrugging her shoulders, she examined the tips of her fingers, drawing a bit of the Nord's ire at her nonchalance. Despite her aloof attitude towards the whole ordeal, Amon still owed her a great debt; facing her, he bowed his head a low as his armor would begrudge him.

"Thank you once again Morrigan, if there is ever anything I can do to repay your kindness, do not hesitate to ask it."

Taken aback at his words Morrigan stares dumbly at him for a moment before collecting herself, "I... you are welcome, though Mother did most of the work. I am no healer."

"I see, regardless I am in your debt."

Without another word he pushed open the wooden door and averted his eyes as the blistering sun blinded his vision momentarily. Did the foul orb have to shine so brightly? Two figures were the only varied objects that stood out in the seemingly endless expanse of damp swamp, the creature of malevolence and the oafish Warden the latter of whom seemed to beg a hole to wear into the soil at his constant pacing.

"Cease your pacing boy, see? Here is your fellow Grey Warden. You worry too much, young man."

At her words Alistair stopped suddenly and without another word closed the short distance between them, a little too close for the Nord's liking.

"You...You're alive! I thought you were dead for sure."

"Bah, such feeble wounds at the hands of a _Jotunn_ are nothing compared to what I have suffered in the past."

"This….doesn't seem real. If it weren't for Morrigan's mother, we'd be dead on top of that tower."

Stepping closer to the two Warden's the old witch lays a withering look upon Alistair, "Do not talk about me as if I am not present, lad."

"I didn't mean...but what do we call you? You never told us your name." Taking a couple steps back, he puts a suitable distance between himself and the older witch.

"Names are pretty, but useless. The Chasind folk call me Flemeth. I suppose it will do."

Flemeth? Amon rolled that name around in his head, trying to see if that name appeared in any of the texts concerning Daedra or similar veins of evil, it had no meaning to him, but it seemed it did to Alistair upon hearing the name forged further distance from the old woman.

"**The** Flemeth from the legends? Daveth was right - you're the Witch of the Wilds, aren't you?"

The corners of her mouth quirked up as the mirthful tone of her voice belied the dark feeling she exuded, "And what does that mean? I know a bit of magic, and it has served you both well, has it not?"

Amon was deeply confused, beings of such evil do not help others unless they desired a boon in return, and what could the old codger want from them? A darker thought courses through his mind forcing him to suppress the urge to shudder, how he prayed it not that.

"Why did you assist us? What do you hope to gain by allowing us to remain living?"

"Well, we cannot have all the Grey Wardens dying at once, can we? Someone has to deal with all these darkspawn."

That was not the reason, and Amon knew it, such a being had little to fear from a mindless horde such as these spawn. This creature desired something more, something she could not achieve on her own and needed to task others to do for her. He had tuned out the words the witch had said next, something about the Warden's uniting the lands to combat something called a blight, it mattered not to him. This was not his land and he held no sympathy for its inhabitants. Alistair on the other hand….

"But we **were** fighting the darkspawn! The king had nearly defeated them! Why would Loghain do this?"

"Now **that** is a good question. Men's hearts hold shadows darker than any tainted creature. Perhaps he believes the Blight is an army he can outmaneuver. Perhaps he does not see that the evil behind it is the true threat."

"Or perhaps, he is just a gutless coward that desired rule."

Again a slightly smile appears on her wrinkled face, "Perhaps…"

"The Arch-demon…"

"Bah! The rhyme or reason for either means little to me."

A shocked look appeared on Alistair's face as he turns to face his fellow Warden, how Amon could be so callous towards this, the whole world was at stake.

"How can you say that Amon? We are Grey Warden, it is our duty to find and stop the Arch-demon!"

Snarling at the younger man Amon swipes his hand through the air, gesturing wide at the expansive land, "This is not my home, this is not my fight boy. Whatever contract I held died on the field with the old fool. Now cease your whimpering and begone from my sight, I have other pressing matters to attend to and this foolish contest has wasted enough of my time."

Laying a hand on his shoulder the aged witch wrenches Alistair's imitation of a gasping fish from Amon's attention and to her own. "Be a dear and assist my young Morrigan would you? I will have a talk with your less-than…enthusiastic Warden."

Casting Amon a disapproving glance, which the Nord returned with a sneer, Alistair obeys and enters the hut leaving the Witch and Warden alone in the desolate swamp. The two, holding their gazes upon another for a brief moment before the Nord shatters the silence, "speak your words witch; see if you can persuade me to join your pathetic cause."

Her response was not what he had expected, she…smiled, but it did not feel joyful, it was dreadful and malicious it provoked intense fear deep within him and he wished for nothing more than to be away from it. On instinct, his hand darted towards the sword at his hip, but as if struck by lightning and frozen by ice his body refused to obey his command. The air around him chilled and all the warmth left his body, he felt naked in the wind and helpless like a newborn, what sorcery did this witch employ.

"Now now, such foolish actions are unneeded my dear Dovahkiin."

The spell she cast did not hinder his breath but the words she spoke hitched the air in his lungs, how could she know of his birthright, it was true since the war's onset that knowledge of his lineage had spread far throughout Tamriel but how could someone so isolated in a land so foreign to him know?

"H-how?"

"Shh, do not speak, just listen. I have an offer that you would delight in considering. I offer you a single boon, slay the arch-demon and in return. I shall send you back to your beloved Skyrim, back to your pointless war. What say you, hmm, oh great king?"

A thousand thoughts spiraled in his head, by the Nine what was this creature. Surely, he could not trust it no matter its offer, no good ever came from bargaining with foul beings, and they sought only their own benefit and cared little to adhere to their bargains. It disgusted him to even fathom the notion; even the gifts he received from the Daedric Princes came with a hefty price. They he knew of. This creature was unknown and thus far more of a liability to him, despite the bile growing in his throat what choice did he have? As the old Warden had said, he would be hunted by the spawn running blindly in a foreign land. He had no choice.

"I… accept. But why?"

Waving her hand he could feel the warmth returning to his body, the constricting force banished as if it was never there at all, a sudden welling of disgust forcing him to bite back bile forming in his mouth. Not since the Dragon Crisis had he been conned into so many bargains against his judgment, it was sorely becoming tiresome and he swore the next old person who begged his assistance would feel the full might of his Thu'um. The creature under the guise of Flemeth merely watched his suffering with amusement, growling he drew his hand across his mouth wiping the dribbled saliva and hints of bile from his lips. The moment he slew this, Arch-demon, the sooner he could go home but before he departed this land he would drive his sword through the old hag's gullet and let her bleed to death. Oh, how he would enjoy watching her die, probably far more than he should.

"Good, you are not as simple as your appearance would suggest you are my dear Dovahkiin. This task should be quite simple for such an accomplished dragon slayer, wouldn't you say?"

Her words came out as a purr; if she was not so wrinkled and menacing, he might have found it slightly seductive.

"I will complete your request woman but know this I have no trust of you, malice is not to be trusted and if you aim to betray me I will not hesitate to show you just how I slew so many Dov."

Another bout of humorless laughter gnaws on his ears as she gives him a maternal look; this disturbed him more than anything else she had done in there short meeting. Craning her head towards her hut she spies her daughter Morrigan and Alistair emerge from within and move to join them, an irate look on the Witch's daughter further cementing her amusement. His gaze lingered for a moment longer on the malicious woman, later when he had time to rest and collect his thoughts he would contemplate her possible motives and origin but for now…

"The stew is bubbling, Mother dear no thanks to that buffoon. Shall we have two guests for the eve or none?" Morrigan addressed her mother in a slightly irate tone, seemed that Alistair rendered the young witch no fruitful assistance in cooking if her tone and the sharp glare she sent the man was any indication.

Alistair himself looked slightly shameful for whatever had transpired in the hut however as soon as he caught sight of his larger Warden companion he frowned. Seemed his harsh words still soured the sardonic man's mood.

"The Grey Wardens are leaving shortly, girl. And you will be joining them."

"Such a shame –What?"

"See boy, I told you I could convince your friend here to assist. Took a tiny bit of –"the old witch leveled a knowing look at him earning her a sneer in return, much to her furthered amusement. "—persuasion but I managed."

The delighted look on Alistair face served only to agitate Amon more; why in the name of Talos did he have to seem so happy. You'd think he'd just won a chest of septims in a duel.

"Mother!"

"You heard me, girl. The last time I looked, you had ears! Ha ha."

"Have I no say in this?"

"You have been itching to get out of the Wilds for years. Here is your chance. As for you, Wardens, consider this repayment for your lives."

Amon could care less, so long as she was no burden in battle, if Flemeth was any indication of magical prowess than surely her daughter possessed similar abilities. Alistair seemed less enthusiastic about the idea.

"Not to...look a gift horse in the mouth, but won't this add to our problem? Out of the Wilds, she's an apostate."

Apostate, another word filed away for research seemed more and more of this land was alien to his own.

"If you do not wish help from us illegal mages, young man, perhaps I should have left you on that tower."

Deflated by her rebuttal Alistair toys with a loose piece of thread on his armor before shifting his attention to his Nordic companion, he was curious what the old witch had said to persuade him to assist them. Surely, it had to be something profound to convince someone to wage war against the Darkspawn, how was it that older people had such power to convince someone as inscrutable as Amon. Whenever he left him alone with someone, he would return to find Amon convinced, if only he could learn such powers…

"Mother...this is not how I wanted this. I am not even ready—"

"You must be ready. Alone, these two must unite Ferelden against the darkspawn. They need you, Morrigan. Without you, they will surely fail, and all will perish under the Blight. Even I."

Still doubts plagued the young witch of the wilds; her mother surely had a reason for sending her off with these two Wardens. Despite her apprehension she was slightly excited at the prospect, now she could learn more about the larger Warden, to find out why he held such a tantalizing aura. "I…understand."

Smiling at her daughter's cooperation, she turned back to the two Wardens'; Amon still pouting at his unintended involvement and a myriad of emotions cross the other's face. All was going according to her plan…

"And you, Wardens? Do you understand? I give you that which I value above all in this world. I do this because you must succeed."

Snorting defiantly Amon unlaced his arms from his chest and grasped his helm, which had slipped from his fingers during their earlier, discussion. Slipping the sleek metal helm over his features her stared at the older witch through the eye slits, his one good eye boring a hole of hate through her. "Worry not for her safety hag, so long as you stay true to your word I will mine."

"I see…come along Morrigan dear; I shall help you prepare for your journey."

After the two witches had left Alistair finally considered interrogating the Nord, many questions littered his thoughts but one was paramount, "Amon what did Flemeth say to convince you to aid Ferelden?"

Amon did not answer the young man for a moment, lost in his own thoughts then without turning he finally spoke staring out into the never ending marshes. "She offered me something I need, and until I can secure an alternative means of acquiring it I am slaved to her whims. Know this Alistair, I feel no hatred for you or this land, I however have the safety and concerns of my own land."

Behind him, the sound of a door opening and the wet squelch of footsteps silenced any words his fellow Warden had planned and informed him that his newest companion had finished her packing. Turning in place, he spied Morrigan walking towards him a wooden staff mimicking a gnarled branch clutched in her hand as a walking stick. A simple pack stuffed with, if his nose was to be trusted, various herbs, and spell components slung across her free shoulder. So she indeed was a mage like her mother, Nine hope she was a powerful one. Tapping the tip of her staff against a rock she garnered the attention of both the Warden's, shifting the pack on her shoulder she dipped her head slightly either sincerely or to mock etiquette.

"I am at your disposal, Grey Wardens. I suggest a village north of the Wilds as our first destination. 'Tis not far and you find much you need there."

Narrowing her eyes at Alistair as his eyes rolled at her words, who upon seeing her look cleared his throat nosily and adjusted his armor. "Or, if you prefer, I shall simply be your silent guide. The choice is yours."

"Speak your mind Morrigan; silence could cost us more than your barbs."

Leaning against the frame of the hut behind them, the old witch laughed loudly at his declaration eliciting a curious glance from Alistair and a snarl from Amon, at what point in his words warranted amusement.

"You will regret saying that."

"Dear, sweet mother, you are so kind to cast me out like this. How fondly I shall remember this moment."

"Well, I always said if you want something done, do it yourself, or hear about it for a decade or two afterwards."

Rubbing the bridge of his nose Alistair cups his mouth and speaks to Amon in a low whisper, as if to shield his voice from the two witches, "Do you really want to take her along because her mother says so?"

"Cease your whining boy; we need all the help we can muster if we are to wage a war against the horde." Was Amon's less than chipper reply causing Alistair to sigh once again and mumble under his breath about hounds following its next conquest.

"If you worry I will summon a demon or transform into an abomination rest assured, I will wait until you are not looking."

"Great…" the junior Warden drawled starting his journey away from the hut, down the single beaten path into the marshes.

Turning away from the retreating Warden Morrigan once again regards her mother, a slight sad smile upon her features; "Farewell, Mother. Do not forget the stew on the fire. I would hate to return to a burned-down hut."

"Bah. 'Tis fare more likely you will return to see this entire area, along with my hut, swallowed up by the Blight."

Nonplused by the scornful remark Morrigan is unsure of how to respond, Flemeth however is not afflicted as such. "I know what you mean child, now be off." Shooing them away as if they were nothing but simple beasts the old witch retreats into her home. Sharing a look Amon and Morrigan turn from the swamp hut and adopt a swift pace to catch up to Alistair.

* * *

Nary was a sound uttered between the trios as they made their way towards the village Morrigan had directed them to. Amon leading the pack with the witch Morrigan slightly behind him, Alistair bringing up the rear staring dejectedly into the clouds, a wispy sigh escaping his lips every so often. He knew they had an important quest to save Ferelden but why did there have to be so much walking? Hopefully they could secure a cart or something from…from…

"Say Morrigan, what did you say the name of this village was?" The peaceful heavy silence that had hung between them was finally shattered by Alistair's question, much to the witch's displeasure.

"If you were listening earlier fool you would know, I explained this as we left the Wilds. Lothering, the township of Lothering."

"Oh….think they'll have-"

Cutting him off with a sharp look she continues to walk only to be stopped by Amon as he held up his hand and clenched it into a fist. To any seasoned adventurer it was the universal signal to halt, something in the brush had caught his attention, and fingering the hilt of his blade, he scanned the tree line. It wasn't the spawn, but it stunk of blood, it could just be a beast of the forest investigating the foreign presence in its home. Amon doubted that, for some strange reason it felt as if this beast was waiting for them, he thought he caught a glimpse of something dashing through the trees a while back but dismissed it as a vein of paranoia. Now he was certain something was stalking them.

"What is it Amon?" Alistair was curious, what had the Nordic Warden agitated…besides everything in the Ferelden.

"Do you not see it fool? We are being followed; something stalks us under cover of trees, opens your eyes, and see."

While Alistair scanned the trees, the beast within the forest watched the group, specifically the Nord, blood caking its fur, drool trickling from its open panting maw. Without warning, it lunged from its hiding spot towards the open road, darting swiftly for the armored Nord at the lead.

Snapping branches and rustling leaves alerted the group to their pursuer, a brown form appearing in the road and bolting towards them. Ripping his blade from his hip he raised his shield to meet the beast's charge but it confused and surprised when instead of attempting to tear his throat out the beast, now in the bright light of the sun identified as a hound, came to a halt at his feet. The tiny stub of a tail on its hindquarters wagging happily as it stares up at him with dark eyes, nary a shred of evil within his big round eyes as his tongue lulled from his mouth.

"A hound? This is what stalked us so persistently?"

Sheathing his sword, he hesitantly reached his hand out, and once he was certain the beast would not snap at him, patted his head scratching one of his ears, much to the hound's pleasure. Kneeling down he continued his scratching while the others watch confused.

"Why are you out here alone boy? Did you get lost from your master?"

"I think he was out there looking for you. He's...chosen you. Mabari are like that. They call it Imprinting." Alistair chimes in as he kneels down next to the hound and tentatively joins in the petting, to the Mabari's instant delight. The sole female member of their group however is not as delighted by the idea.

"Does this mean we're going to have this mangy beast following us now? Wonderful."

"He's not mangy! No you aren't!"

The hound barks happily, nuzzling into Alistair's scratches, however once Amon speaks the hound's eyes shoot open and stare into his. Seeming to await any command his new master would give him.

"I had a hound once, loyal and strong, fought with me for many a year before he fell. You remind me of him Mabari, his name was Bran. Do you wish to fight as he did and take his place at my side?"

Barking loudly the hound responds by bobbing his head and fiercely wagging his tail, which seemed to be an affirmative if he had ever seen one. Rising to his feet, Amon began walking once again towards their destination, rapping his armored fingers against his leg.

"Come along then Bran, we must not dally in the open."

Barking happily the newly named Mabari bounds after his master, settling comfortably at his right while the other two members of the group watch with different emotions, Morrigan's less than pleased sigh confuses Alistair as they catch up with their unofficial leader.

"We now have a dog and Alistair is still the dumbest one in the party."

Thinking for a moment Alistair ponders her words before realization dawns upon him, the indignity of such an accusation causing him to flush and shout at Morrigan for the insult much to her and to both their surprise, Amon's amusement.

Once again the group fell into silence, intermittingly broken by their latest companion Bran as every sight and sound of the forest seemed to excite the hound, only once Amon had called his name did the hound cease its howling. Slowing the dirt path widened and eventually replaced with cobbled stone as the group rounded a corner did the village come into view. In front of them, a large stone bridge running parallel to the township spanning a small river and extending further down the road. A merchant's row he assumed, the urging of his tired feet and growling stomach tempted Amon to quicken his pace to the village in hopes of a hot meal and further more a pint of mead. However, the sight of several men dressed in poorly maintained armor dashed the hope of a quick meal, bandits. Delightful.

Upon noticing their approach the brigands ceased looting several of the scattered bodies littering the highway and gathered at the mouth of the bridge to greet them, a man with short black hair and a stubbed beard stepping forward to greet them.

"Wake up, gentlemen! More travelers to attend to. I'd guess the big one is their leader." Beside him, a simpler looking man scratches his balding head, switching his gaze between the group and the leader.

"Err...they don't look like them others, you know. Uh...maybe we should just let these ones pass..."

Resisting the urge to slap some sense into his simpler cohort he smiles broadly, opening his arms as if to reassure the group of his peaceful intentions.

"Nonsense! Greetings, travelers! I welcome you to Lothering Crossways, maintained by me and my fine associates. For a measly ten silver you can pass through, merely for upkeep you understand."

Amon couldn't decide what agitated him the most; the man's flimsy story, his cheerful façade…or the fact he had a piece of meat wedged clearly in his teeth. He decided to assist the man with his problem with all three of his problems.

By removing his head.

Before any could react, Amon's blade flew from its holster and cleaved the bandit leader's head from his shoulders, clearly not expecting such a violent reaction the bandit group stands stunned as their leader's corpse stumbles on rubbery legs before collapsing in a spurting heap. Without needing a command Bran leapt forward, fangs bared, driving his pointed teeth into the subordinate's throat. Morrigan needing no further reason to delay unleashes a torrent of lightning broiling a hammer wielding bandit alive and paralyzing another with the arching magic.

Though stunned by Amon's brutality Alistair meets his sword with a bandit's own easily overpowering the sloppy slash and ending the brigand's career in theft. The fight, one Amon would hardly call a fight, was over before most of the bandit's could even draw their weapons. Clearly, they were only expecting frightened refugees to scam, not a group of experienced and armed fighters. Cleaning the blood from his blade, he kicks the corpse of his final kill as Bran plopped himself at his feet diligently licking the blood from his claws. Kneeling next to the leader's corpse, he patted down his pockets and to his delight found a large pouch containing many brown coins, some silver, and a large golden piece. Amon was unsure of the land's economy but if he had to venture a guess then this was a tidy sum they had pilfered, another time he would have returned such a bounty to those these men had stolen it form. His quest however was far more pressing and he doubted that the small sum of septims he had on his person held any worth in this land.

"Highwaymen. Preying on those fleeing the darkspawn...even if they were scum did they deserve such brutality?" Alistair's morose mood as he ran a small cloth over his sword seemed the boy had a conscience. A pity, such moral aptitude usually resulted in more suffering than good.

Morrigan however held no such morality; "They were fools to get in our way, they deserved such lessons."

"I suppose…"

Alistair had little time to mourn as he struggled to keep hold of the large pouch Amon had cast to him, curious he looked at the de facto leader of their group before peering inside the bag. Shocked at its contents he question Amon who merely shrugs and continues towards the village, did the larger Warden wish him to bear the groups money? Why? Pushing the question to the back of his mind he tied the pouch to his belt and followed the group into the village, and after inquiring directions to the inn they arrived at a large building dubbed "Dane's Refuge." According to the townsmen they had asked this was where the refugees swarming the small town rested, more than likely this was where they could rest, eat, and discuss their plan of action.

The creaking door announced their entrance and made them the focus of all within, many of the refugees stared confused or frightened at the armed group before turning back to their own business. The arrival of more soldiers meant little to them. Scanning the tavern Amon spots a free table by the fire, once they had made their way through the ocean of people he sat heavily upon the wooden chair, both he and the chair groaning as his full girth fell into it. Removing the black helmet from his head, he was glad to be free of its confines for a brief moment, setting it upon the worn wooden table and brushing aside a strand of errant hair from his eyes Amon once again scanned the room, setting his eyes upon a young woman serving drinks to a table of soldiers.

Summoning the barmaid he ordered a round of food and drinks for the group, instead of compiling however she merely stared at him, confused and irritated at her idling he let a growl slip through his lips. Was she daft or merely too simple to understand his order, the curse he formed was stalled when a man came to her rescue. His appearance unremarkable and his only noticeable feature being a sizeable mustache claiming the space above his lips.

"We don't have any more charity for refugees, so if you think to start trouble you best leave before I summon the Templars."

"Insolent cur! Do we share the look of these other peasants? We have the gold if that is what you seek."

Looking over the group the inn's proprietor realizes his mistake, bowing his head he shoos the barmaid away, lest she draw the ire of this man further. "By the Maker, I beg your pardon Ser I did not notice. What is it I can provide you with?"

Mumbling under his breath of spineless mongrels he beckons for Alistair to hand over the pouch he liberated from the bandits, extracting a single coin, one of the strange silver ones. Sliding the piece to the man, he tosses the pouch back to the confused Alistair.

"Food and drink for me and my comrades." At his side, Bran whines tilting his head to the side. "And a beef bone for my hound."

Greedily grabbing the silver coin the barkeep bows several more times before disappearing into the kitchen shouting orders to the cooks. Amon raises a brow at the behavior, "What an odd man, you'd think he's never seen coin before."

"That may be because you paid him a silver piece for meals that cost less than forty copper. You just gave him a giant tip." Alistair voices as he secures the pouch to his belt. Amon stares at the young Warden for a few moments before sighing; this land's currency was confusing; copper, silver and gold? Could they not just stick with one denomination of metal and not something so obtuse?

"I…see. Then since you seem to know far more of this land's economics, you shall be in charge of our expenses." Amon made no attempt to resist a smirk as Alistair flustered at the sudden responsibility. Resigning in defeat, he accepted his new duty with a groan, something was going to go wrong he just knew it, it always did. Alistair silently wondered if the Maker did these things to him just to be cruel.

"If you two are quite through, perhaps we should discuss our intended destination. Unless you prefer to wander aimlessly across all of Ferelden." Morrigan's displeased tone broke Alistair from his loathing, and despite his distrust of the apostate witch she was correct, they needed to have a plan of action.

"Right, well we have to gather all of those who pledged to support the Warden's cause, Amon you have the treaties?"

Nodding the Nordic Warden removed the bundle of papers from his hip satchel laying the worn parchments on the table he scanned the muted black ink fingers tracing the intricate seals at the bottom of each paper. Alistair also examined the documents with revered care, and after a few moments clears his thought calling the attention of both his fellow Warden and the Witch.

"These treaties dictate that those who promised must come to our aid in the event a Blight threatened the land, many Banns and Teyrns are included but there are three main groups we need to acquire. The Dalish Elves, the dwarves of Orzammar and the Circle of Magi. However I think our best bet is to head to Redcliffe first and contact Arl Eamon, he can provide us with anything we could need for this journey, and he'd most certainly pledge his troops to the cause."

More and more Amon finds himself lost in this foreign land, Dalish Elves? Which realm of Mer were these Dalish, hopefully not Altmer. He refused to beg the Thalmor for help. And what was this talk of Dwarves? Did the Dwemer still exist in this land, curious, he would certainly be interested in meeting the fabled deep elves.

"Sounds as reasonable as any plan, we shall meet this; Arl Eamon before we locate these other groups. But first, let us rest and eat." Amon gathered the treaties and stuffed them back into his satchel just as the Barkeep and his maid returned carrying trays of food and drink. They ate their food in silence for the most part, with only Bran's content growls sounding over the hushed talk of the other patrons.

The meal itself was nothing special, a simple stew of meat and vegetables with a hunk of stale bread to soak the broth, washed down with something that Amon refused to address as proper mead. Did these men truly believe this swill was true alcohol? When he returned to Skyrim he needed to persuade Brynjolf to open that bottle of Black-Briar Reserve 4E 175, a fine year if he did say so himself. After all, he was born that year, how could it not be a good mead. Finishing the swill he slammed the tankard heavily against the table, drawing the attention of his companions who had finished their meals just as he had. The loud uncivil burp that erupted from his mouth shocked Alistair enough to hide his face in embarrassment, cursing under his breath about his crude behavior. Alistair's humiliation amused the Nord a rare chuckle following the expulsion of gas, a bit of sadistic pleasure at the expense of his fellow Warden. However his amusement is short lived as a group of armed men stalked to their table; it seemed they had a purpose for as soon as they noticed them their own meal was forgotten.

"Well, look what we have here, men. I think we've just been blessed."

Alistair stared at the group for a moment before his jaw set clenched, making sure his voice could not be heard over the tavern's noise he whispered to his companions, "Loghain's men. This can't be good."

"Didn't we spend all morning asking about a man by this very description? And everyone said they hadn't seen him?" A second man turned to the lead, eyeing Amon warily. The reports did not exaggerate when they proclaimed the man's size.

"It seems we were lied to." Signaling his two other subordinates to circle the table, he had to take precautions, according the Lord Loghain the big one was extremely dangerous and not to be taken lightly.

"Are you going to come quietly traitors? Or do I we have to involve these bystanders in a fight?"

Amon stared at the lead soldier for a moment before reaching across the table; an action which caused the soldiers to reach for their weapons only to relax slightly after he snatched Alistair's half empty tankard. Downing the contents with a grimace he tossed the empty cup over his shoulder, his hand resting near the serving tray left by the barmaid.

"A moment if you please, I have something I need to do beforehand."

The lead soldier was confused, do? What could he possibly have to do before being arrested, any reason the man could think of in the brief pause was swiftly replaced with the flat of the iron tray. After Amon slammed the bottom of it against his face.

Blood spewing from his nose the soldier as he staggered backwards landing heavily through a nearby table, its occupants fleeing as the armored man turned their dining table into kindling. Amon leisurely rising from his chair towers over the downed man a victorious smile splitting his features, "that'll be a hundred septims milk-drinker." The smile upon his lips only widens as the soldier's subordinate retaliates with a sloppy haymaker, the man's fist only manages to rustle a few stands of his beard. The ridged metal of his gauntlet biting deeply into the soldier's cheek as the force of his counter knocks him into the bar nursing the gash upon his cheek.

Beating his fist against his plated chest he stalked towards the disoriented soldier a feral grin on his face. As the soldier pushed himself from the bar he wildly swung at the advancing Nord, another sloppy hook shot to his unarmored head easily intercepted by his forearm. Slamming his armored fist twice more across the man's face he was about to deliver a final vicious strike when a sudden forceful impact jarred his vision and sent a shiver of pain throughout his neck and head. Pieces of wood scattering around him, littering his hair with splinters, his attacker starring at the jagged pieces of wood remaining in his hand as his target tosses his comrade aside shaking off the strike as if it were nothing.

Dread filled the soldier as the Nord turned to face him, a large grin showing off teeth, which the soldier swore he saw what reminded him of fangs, splitting his bearded face. "Now this! Is a good brawl!"

The large Warden roughly grabs the shoulders of the confused man, rearing his head back and driving it against the man's helmet. Relishing in the sudden pain brought by the sharp metal protrusion cutting his skin and drawing blood that trickled down his forehead, dropping the limp man to the floor Amon moved to the lead soldier who only now begins to rouse from the initial strike.

Alistair himself busying himself with the final soldier, a tentative bout of careful jabs and evasions, he was slowly wearing his opponent down with his precise strikes. Bit by bit Loghain's soldier was tiring, his punches moving slower, his defense weakening allowing Alistair strikes to slip by his guard and land.

Bran eager to join the fray rears back to leap at the nearest combatant, only to find himself held back, a slender feminine arm clad in purple holding his collar firmly. Despite his whining and pulling against her grip she refused to relent and with a huff he conceded his struggle perking slightly at the hand that held him back now patting his head.

While the two Warden's engaged in fisticuffs against Loghain's lackeys, the sole female and mage of their small group sat alone at the table calmly sipping her drink, eyes closed seemingly ignorant to the surrounding brawl. The only indication, a small frown on her lips and a muted muttering of brutish men and their pointless pride, Morrigan busied herself as the Wardens fought switching between drumming her fingers against the table or idly caressing the hounds head. The witch of the wilds preyed that this incident did not repeat itself every time they chanced a stay at an inn or tavern, 'twould be a tiring journey otherwise.

* * *

Inside her secluded section of the Chantry quarters a single sister knelt at her bed, hands clasped in traditional prayer form, lips silently mouthing words memorized from years prior. Her words finished she rose from the floor clutching the bow lain carefully atop the diligently made bed sheet. Her brothers and sisters mocked her dreams, dismissed them as foolish whims and tired dreams, even the Revered Mother refused to believe her. She knew her vision was not merely a dream, but a command from the Maker urging her towards her destiny, and with news of a band of strange warriors slaying the bandits outside of town she overheard from the local templars. Leliana knew the "Child of the North" the Maker commanded her to assist had arrived; she knew it in her heart it was time to leave the Chantry. Checking her armor once more, satisfied that it still fit her even after years of lying at the bottom of her chest, it was a simple set of studded leather armor with a bit of red adorned for flair. She simply adored the color red, especially if it matched her hair's particular shade.

Double-checking to make sure, she had gathered everything needed for her journey, satisfied that it was all in order, belongings and resolve firmly secured she finally set off for the tavern where, according to the Templar rumor she overheard, the group had stopped and not departed for the last hour. Ignoring the disapproving stares of her former cloistered family, she rested her hand on the large doors separating the outside world from the sanctuary of the Maker. Her fingers running across the carved symbols adorning the wood she forced the large doors open smiling, as the warm rays from the bright sun seemed to douse the dark feeling that had suddenly welled inside her. The sight of so many people in despair saddened her greatly but she reminded herself that she could do far more good following the Maker's decree than staying in Lothering tending to them. Her resolve set she quickly made her way towards the tavern confused at the small crowd of people gathered around the door, was something going on? Her answer came in the form of an armor-clad form flying from inside causing the spectators to scatter to avoid the man's rough landing. Something indeed was happening and Leliana had a peculiar feeling it was related to the group she was after, quickening her pace she ignoring the groaning soldier and brushed past the spectators.

The sight she came to witness as she entered the establishment was one she had seen many times before both in Orlais and even here in the sleepy hamlet of Lothering, men and women tired from work and stressed by daily life venting their collective stress in fights. However, this time it was not a simple fistfight between farmers but a brawl of armored warriors. Her eyes immediately landed upon the largest of the occupants as he knelt down to continue his assault, quickly closing the distance between them she nimbly slips her arms around his own as he reared it back to strike the dazed man. It took all her strength to hold him back, Maker what did this man eat to attain such power; her grasp seemed to catch his attention as he attempted to shake off her grip.

"Release me woman!"

"No, stop this insanity! We are in the middle of a trying time and such pointless altercations help no one but the spawn!"

Rising to his feet, he exercised his strength and shoved her back adopting a fighting stance, "Are you allied with these milk-drinkers?"

Marjolaine's training allowed her to catch herself before she stumbled over the various pieces of abandoned furniture, restraining the hand that instinctually darted towards one of various daggers hidden on her person. Calming her nerves, she met his gaze and was shocked as to what she not only saw within his eyes but the distinct aura he seemed to produce was unlike anything she had ever felt.

It held a distinct ancient grace surrounded by unbridled animalistic fury, warmth not unlike the blessings of the maker swirling and battling the frigid darkness of evil both battling for control and both unable to pierce the staunchly dominant essence emanating from within his heart. It was the same overwhelming feeling she felt when the Maker visited her dreams; it was him, the Child of the North that the Maker himself beckoned her to find; now she could complete the quest bequeathed upon her by god.

Amon was…confused to say the least, first this woman had stayed his fist and begged him to stop, now she stood rigid staring at him; first with scrutinizing eyes then the next with wide dazzling eyes. It was slightly off putting and frankly, her stares were worrying him.

"Did you want to fight alongside your fellows or…?"

Shaken from her own world by his voice she shook her head vigorously sending her short vibrant hair out like a spreading fire, "By the Maker no! Please let me introduce myself. I am Leliana, one of the lay sisters of the chantry here in Lothering. Or I was." She was pleased when he lowered his fists; he had nothing to fear from her.

"I am Amon Thorer of the Grey Wardens, Is there something you desperately needed from me to interrupt my recreation?"

"You are a Grey Warden? You will be battling the darkspawn, yes? That's what Grey Warden's do?"

"If what the old fool preached to me holds true, yes."

"Then you will need all the help you can get. That's why I am coming along."

Silence came between them as he stared at her, his mouth hanging slightly open. Was this woman serious? Ignoring the apparent dangers of battling the horde, what could a priestess do in a fight? Pray at the spawn? Allowing that thought to mull in his mind a moment he forced himself back to reality, just now taking in her attire; Leather armor, a long bow slung across her back and, if his eyes weren't failing him, several hidden knives across her person. Strange attire for a supposed sister of a church, then again it wasn't any stranger than the armored robes Miraak's former cultists dressed in. At the very least she wasn't wearing those crab like masks.

"I'm sorry?"

"Yes please, The Maker ordained me to join your quest to defeat the Blight!"

"…the Maker?"

"I know that this sounds…absolutely insane-but it's true! I had a dream…a vision! Look at the people here. They are lost in their despair, and this darkness, this chaos...will spread. The Maker doesn't want this. He came to me in the dream, begged me to find you, the Child of the North tainted by many evils are destined by the gods to stop the darkness and usher in the light. He begged me to join your quest and render you assistance that you desperately need! I know I said I was just a lay sister but I wasn't always one, many of us in the order once lived colorful lives before we joined. My skills will certainly be useful to you on your quest, so if you can find it in your heart to accept me as one of your comrades I would be most…appreciative?"

Leliana had become distracted remembering the Maker's warmth and allowed herself to become distracted, and it seemed within those moments the Child of the North had slipped away along with his other companions.

"Hello? Amon Thorer?"

"You there, Miss."

"Who me?"

The owner of the establishment stalked up to her, his face set in a most displeased frown, what he could possibly want with her she certainly had no clue.

"Your friends left saying you'd foot the bill for the damages. If you would be so kind as to pay me now, a gold piece should cover everything."

"Huh!?" Was the former Lay sister's response as she frantically searched the refuge for her armored target.

* * *

_**Moments before.**_

* * *

She could not be serious, could she? This Maker, if what he remembered was true, was these people's god and he commanded her to join him? It wasn't that hard to believe considering his own involvement with gods but the way she carried on and on, it gave him the distinct impression she was daft in the head. While she seemed lost in her own ranting he seized the moment and slowly slinked away from her, comely or not he was not about to get involved with a zealot.

Motioning to Alistair and Morrigan he urged them out the door evading their questions, a curse slips from his lips when the barman stops them from leaving complaining about damages. Swiftly fibbing he directed the man to the bizarre sister. Satisfied with the excuse he leaves to extract his coin, seizing his chance Amon ushers his companions out the door, swiftly slamming it behind him.

Only once had they put a sizeable distance from the inn did Amon finally breathe a sigh of relief, followed shortly by an undignified snort. Pay for damages, it was not as if he had started the brawl, he only finished it.

"What was that about Amon? Who was that woman?"

"Some zealot ranting about a baker or something."

Alistair stared dumbfounded at the Nord, a baker? Why would anyone rant about a baker? He wondered if this baker crafted delicious pastries. His confusion only deepened when the same women bolts from the tavern doorway and swiftly closing the distance a most displeased look marring her features.

Amon stifling a curse scans his surroundings for a plausible escape route, maybe if he struck Alistair in the knees and took off it would distract the woman long enough for him to escape…It was the best he could think up.

"Now just a moment you!" Leliana, slightly out of breath, jabs an accusing finger at the Nord; "How dare you try to pass the bill for the damage you accrued off on me!"

While the women held a hand to her chest as a placating gesture to sooth her burning chest, Alistair locked eyes with Morrigan, who only shrugged her shoulders. It seemed she was just as lost as he was, which meant that the sole bearer of answers lay with their Nordic leader, who seemed to be inching his way away.

"Amon, what is she talking about?"

"Why in Mora's name would I know? She is daft."

"I am not crazy! The Maker truly did ordain me to join your quest, please reconsider, and allow me to accompany you."

"Her plea seems wholehearted and even though she seems to be a little...strange, she clearly has the skill to hold her own. I vote to let her come along."

Laying his hand upon the hilt of his sword Amon arches his brow at the younger Warden's sudden confidence in the odd woman. "Regardless of her skill boy, she's one Khajit short of a caravan."

"Yes, but she seems more... "Ooh, pretty colors!" than "Muahaha! I am Princess Stabbity! Stab, kill, kill! And you said so yourself Amon, "we need all the help we can muster if we are to wage a war against the horde." Alistair was slightly confused by the context of the strange metaphor but understood his fellow Warden's meaning. They obviously needed all the assistance they could get and while he was quite concerned with her claim of the Maker they sourly could not reject the help.

Amon's trademark exasperated growl as his own words were turned against him compelled a slight grin to manifest upon Alistair lips, it truly was amusing to provoke the larger man in such a way, and he could see why Duncan prodded the man incessantly. His grin only widened when the man leveled him a spiteful glare. "Fine, you can come along, just keep your…Maker talk to yourself. I have dealt with enough zealots to last a Dov's lifetime."

"Truly? Thank the Maker and bless you! I won't let you down, I promise!"

Amon was not clearly not ready for the redhead's enthusiastic thank you a bewildered look appeared on his face as the young woman, grasping both his hands in her smaller ones, shook them with a force that belayed her tiny frame. Prying the offending hands from his he took several steps back hoping to avoid whatever other odd ways of thanking him she had planned; it was slightly off putting to see someone so exuberant at the prospect of joining a crusade against evil. The sound of Alistair's amusement served only to sour his mood further, reaching over he grabbed the younger man's collar and pulled him up so their eyes met.

"Know this boy; if I awaken naked strapped to a stone table awaiting some morbid sacrifice to this Maker of yours then I shall haunt you for the rest of your miserable days."

The laughter faltered only for a moment at the threat before erupting back in full force causing him to flee the impending wraith of the thoroughly agitated Nord. After a short introduction and a few choice barbs from none-other than Morrigan herself the group finally set off for Redcliffe and hopefully a swift end to the Blight.

* * *

_**Jötunn-**_ Beings in Norse Mythology, simply put, Giants. Amon doesn't know that they call the huge Darkspawn orge's and they aren't present in Skyrim as they are in Cyrodiil so he thinks that it is just another Giant.

**Bran-**War hound in Dawnguard, I preferred Bran and Sceolang over any of the other hounds offered in Skyrim. Huskies are so much cooler than Irish wolfhounds especially when decked out in Dawnguard armor. Sadly my Bran did die battling a Dragon, RIP Bran! Originally I was going to name the Mabari Meeko, after the Hound in Skyrim but after playing Dawnguard I went with Bran.

XXXXXX

Before anyone complains about the Ring of Hircine, yes I know that it does not do what I claim it does but in a non-game setting the ability to grant another transformation seems pointless as the limiting of one per day is merely for balancing. Therefore, I figure that instead it could be used to help tame the blood when the moon is full and/or when his anger begins to bubble out of control. He can still transform if he chose to but he doesn't want to, so he doesn't.

Am I alone in thinking that Morrigan looked much better in the clothing from the Sacred Ashes trailer than in game? I mean I won't lie and say she didn't look hot in such skimpy clothing but it seemed a little too much (Especially during the Urn quest and here I thought I liked the cold!), that garb she had in the trailer was unique and interesting, the Robes of Possession from the Grimoire quest should've been modeled after those. Oh well, that's what PC mods are for I suppose.

I was unsure how much an average meal would cost so I based it off how much the drinks cost in Tapster's Tavern in Orzammar. Two copper for Ale, Three for mead. So a simple meal and some drinks shouldn't cost more than thirty copper, no? Then again, who knows.

Halfway through the bar scene I came to a realization, does the Warden's group learn of Loghain's declaration of treachery in Lothering before meeting the soldiers? I can't really remember, so for the sake of me not having to write another scene of Amon and company learning it just assume they heard it somewhere either from Morrigan or someone in town.

And that folks is it for this chapter, was going to be longer but I decided it was better to release a shorter chapter then to wait longer for a couple more pages. As always, leave a review if you find a mistake or if you just wanna say hi!

Ginyou Rinsom Away!


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